Year of the Rottweiler
by Bottled-Rottweiler
Summary: If it was a dog fight they wanted, she would be the Rottweiler. Rated M for gore, violence, language, and other ideologically sensitive material.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"It has to be tonight."

A moment of chilling silence settled on the room as the somber whisper emerged from the shadows, the speaker's brown eyes blinking sadly through the inky darkness.

"But...n-no," came the response, sounding whispery and frightened. A pair of green eyes blinked back tears, the uneasy quiet punctuated by an agonized whimper.

"Aiko," the first voice whispered firmly, "You _have _to do it tonight. We don't have time left to wait. We have to run."

"N-no!" the second voice exclaimed, tears streaming down the speaker's cheeks openly, "I can't! Can't she just come with us?"

"No," the initial speaker refused with a shake of his head, a soft sigh falling from his lips, "I know, Aiko. It's not an easy thing to do. You don't know how I will never forgive myself for this, but it's just too dangerous for her to come with us. She'll be safe here. No one will ever know. And I promise you, we _will _come back for her when things have calmed down. I promise."

There was a moment of hesitation, punctuated with another dog-like whimper. Eyes overflowing with agonized tears, Aiko averted her mournful stare to the floor, her expression one of utmost misery.

Then, a tender hand brushed her cheek, a thumb wiping away her tears. "I know, love. I wish there was another way."

Aiko hesitated, then, with a sob vibrating in her throat, she agreed, "Fine. I'll do it. To keep her safe."

"It's for the best," the first speaker sighed. He looked to her with a severe frown on his face and prompted, "The locket?"

"I'll give it to her," Aiko sniffled, pulling the dense hood of her overcoat over her head, veiling her face in shadow, "I'll give it to her when I say goodbye."

He nodded, glancing towards the door anxiously. "The sun will rise in a few hours. We're running out of time. Go."

Outside, the streets of District 5 were drenched in silvery starlight, a full moon glowering overhead. Eyes darting to and fro anxiously, Aiko bolted down the deserted street, taking note of every empty alley as if she expected someone to leap out at her at any moment.

The bundle in her arms shivered and nestled closer, listening to the frantic drumming of a panicked heartbeat.

Aiko ran until the concrete and asphalt of the city streets turned into a path of hard-baked earth, splattering her boots with reddish-brown mud. A cold, autumn wind rattled in the leafless branches of the few stark, black-barked trees that populated the ghetto, the baying of a dog resonating through the night. A few small shacks flanked the trail on either side, makeshift houses with sagging, tin roofs and rotten, wooden walls, interlaced with serpentine tangles of ivy and gnarled, black brambles laden with claw-like thorns. The barking of the dog grew louder as she neared her destination: the worn, wooden building at the very end of the road, before the path trailed off into the dying forest that separated the ghetto from the electrified fence that encircled the district.

The stairs of the front porch of the home sagged, flanked on either side by a half-dead shrub with its roots lodged lifelessly in the hard, red soil. The shutters on the dark windows rattled in the wind, mingling with the dog's persistent barking in a menacing chorus that raked Aiko's brain, tears dripping down her colorless cheeks as she looked down at the tiny bundle in her arm.

The toddler blinked back, whimpering softly through the folds of her worn blanket.

"Shhh...," Aiko cooed as she clutched the child to her chest, her own voice quivering, "Mama's got you...don't cry..."

The small child nestled into her mother's chest, causing Aiko's heart to shatter. The weight of the world crashed down on the young woman's shoulders as she carried her toddler up the stairs, the boards of the porch creaking underfoot as she crossed them. She stopped and stared, eyes quivering with tears, at the handmade, wooden sign mounted to the building's front door, engraved with neat, bold-faced letters that red, "DISTRICT 5 ORPHANAGE."

"Mama...?" the toddler whimpered softly, pulling Aiko from her daze.

_It has to be done, _the woman reminded herself, sinking to her knees on the orphanage's front porch, sniffling quietly as she embraced her child for the last time.

"Listen to me, Isabella," she whispered, carefully sitting the toddler down on the faded welcome mat, wrapping the blanket around the child tightly, "I know that you don't understand, but...Mama has to go away, just for a little while. Mama and Daddy have to leave, just until things are safe. But, we'll come back. I promise you...I swear on my life, we will come back..." She was sobbing openly now.

The toddler blinked uncomprehending, dark brown eyes back at her, whimpering.

Aiko slowly pulled a silver, heart-shaped locket from around her neck, its face embellished with several interlocked clock gears. She held it out for the child to see, forcing herself to smile as she carefully fastened the chain around the toddler's neck. "Here, this is for you," she whispered through her tears, "Always keep it with you. To remember us by, just until we can come back for you."

The child looked down at the locket around her neck curiously. "For...me?"

Aiko nodded. "Yes, darling. For you." She leaned down and kissed the toddler's head, slowly rising to her feet and turning to leave.

This caught the little girl's attention instantly. "Mama?" she prompted, staggering to her feet clumsily and immediately falling back down, landing on her bottom with a thump.

"Shhh...no, no...you have to stay...," Aiko whispered, "I'm so sorry, Isabella...I'm so sorry..."

With a knock on the door, Aiko smiled at her daughter and murmured a goodbye before she bolted down the stairs and around the corner. The toddler cried out, frightened, dropping her blanket to stumble towards the stairs and after her mother.

The door opened, a puddle of sickly, yellow light spilling out onto the porch. A middle-aged woman with graying, mouse brown stood in the door, her tired eyes weighed down with exhaustion as she looked around. "Hello...?"

The girl whimpered, standing on the edge of the porch with silent tears dripping down her cheeks, pointing a finger at the darkness aimlessly.

"O-oh," the woman in the door stuttered, surprised. Then, she smiled, walking over to the crying child slowly. "Hello there," she said warmly, opening her arms, "Are you...alone?"

The toddler only whimpered, stumbling in the opposite direction, grabbing her blanket and clutching it to her chest as she cried. "Mama," she stated, "Want Mama."

"I...I know, dear," the woman managed, noticing the locket around the girl's neck for the first time, "What's that around your neck?"

The child looked down at her locket, then back at the woman, and back once more. Then, with a sound like that of a kicked puppy, she staggered over to the brunette, hugging her blanket tightly. The woman welcomed her into her arms, humming to the little girl softly in a feeble attempt to comfort her.

"Can I see your necklace?" she asked, smiling when the child nodded lightly. Carefully prying the locket open, she was not surprised to see a tiny, folded slip of paper fall out. Holding the toddler with one arm, she unfolded the note with her free hand and read it silently, sighing wearily.

"Well then, Isabella," the woman stated, "Let's get you inside where it's warm, shall we?"

Cradling the toddler to her chest, the middle-aged woman turned to leave, unaware of the silhouette that watched her through the darkness, crouching in the shadow of the orphanage's sagging porch.

Aiko's eyes exploded in a flood of heartache as she watched the caretaker carry her toddler away, the door closing behind the woman and concealing her in darkness once more. She waited for a long moment, wiping the tears from her eyes, before she finally stood and, head hanging, walked off into the night.

She paused as she passed the makeshift house that stood beside the orphanage, a snarl reaching her from somewhere in the darkness. She lifted her head, blinking tears from her eyes, frowning at the chain-link pen mounted to the side of the shack.

A pair of cruel, brown eyes glared back at her, white teeth glinting in the moonlight, a chain rattling in the shadows.

Frozen, Aiko stared.

The Rottweiler stared back.

xXxXxXxXxXx

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"**Beast of Burden"**

Dark clouds loomed over the orphanage, the air damp with the storm that was soon to come, the grumble of thunder already audible in the distance, the sky dreary and dismal. The splintered shutters on the windows rattled in a daunting chorus with the jostling of the black branches of the ghetto's few trees and the cawing of a lone raven. The wooden boards of the front porch joined in the choir, creaking underfoot as eighteen-year-old Rottie Beten stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her.

It was a dreary, solemn afternoon, perfect for the occasion.

It was Reaping day.

Sitting down with her legs dangling over the edge of the porch, Rottie buried her face in her hands, her stomach churning nauseatingly with nerves. Who would be this year's unwilling victims, taken from their district and dragged into the foreign, terrifying world known as the Capitol? She grimaced, imagining the voyage into the world of technicolor residents, seeming hardly human with their plastic smiles and elaborate costumes.

"Well, you don't look nervous at all."

A broad smile spread across her chapped lips, her eyes lighting up at the sound of the familiar voice, its smooth, distinctive accent very unlike her own dull tone.

"Andrew!" Rottie exclaimed happily as she lifted her head to look at the welcome intruder. He watched her back through thin-rimmed glasses, his gentle eyes like solid sapphires. Jet black tresses cascaded to his shoulders, framing his delicate features handsomely. His smooth accent, neat attire, and pleasant odor made it all too apparent that he was not from the district. "What happened? I thought you were leaving this morning!"

The young man smiled back and sat down beside her, a paper bag in hand. "The ride back to the Capitol was delayed by the Reaping. The next train won't leave for another eight hours. Apparently, tourists aren't allowed on the tributes' train."

Rottie nodded, the smile falling off of her face at the mention of the tributes, her features drained of color. "Oh," she whispered anxiously.

"Hey," Andrew reassured her, smiling softly as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Don't worry. It's not going to be you."

"How can you be so sure?" she demanded, shuffling closer as he welcomed her into a one-armed embrace, her head settling on his shoulder.

"Think about it, Rot," he replied, giving her the gentlest of squeezes, "There are hundreds of kids here who fit the bill. Your name is only one in a thousand. More than a thousand."

"One?" Rottie snorted, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, okay. Only a few," he conceded with a playful roll of his eyes. Then, with a tender smile, he offered her the paper bag. "Here," he said, "Brought you something. To calm your nerves."

In the bag was a napkin-wrapped sandwich layered with thin slices of turkey and swiss cheese. Rottie accepted it gratefully, eyes glittering with excitement. "Andrew!" she exclaimed, grinning from ear-to-ear as she examined the simple sandwich as if it were a most valuable gem, "This is incredible! This will feed two of us, maybe three if I don't eat any!"

"Rottie," he laughed, giving her another light-hearted squeeze, "I brought it for _you_."

"Me...? But..." She hesitated, looking back at the sandwich in her hands. As if on cue, her stomach grumbled.

"Rottie, I know that you don't like to see them hungry," Andrew said, his tone stern, "But, you have to eat, too. I have plenty of food back at the inn. Food that I'm more than willing to share with you _and _your family. And I know that you don't want to take it, but you need it more than I do."

"But..." She looked at him and lied, "But, I'm not hungry."

He scowled. "Rottie!"

The growling in her stomach overtaking her, she finally leaned down and, after a moment of hesitation, took a bite of the sandwich, smiling softly as she chewed. "Mm..."

"See? You _were _hungry," Andrew insisted, "And I know that the others are, too. So, as soon as this God-awful Reaping is over, why don't we take a trip to the inn and fix them a nice lunch? There's enough for everyone."

"Are you sure?" she asked over a mouthful of meat, cheese, and wheat bread.

He chuckled. "Of course, Rot. Of course."

A moment of quiet passed between the two, interjected only by the persistent cawing of the raven from its perch in one of the ghetto's stark, leafless trees. Then, with the faintest trace of worry visible in his cobalt eyes, Andrew prompted, "Rottie, how many times is your name in the Reaping today?"

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then swallowed and replied, "Sixty-two."

A look of panic flashed across his features for a fraction of a second before his mask of calm returned. "It's still only a drop in the bucket," he reassured himself, forcing himself to smile, watching as Rottie polished off the sandwich happily.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, reaching into the paper bag and pulling out a tinfoil-wrapped candy, offering it to her with a smile, "I brought you the last peanut butter cup. I know how much you like them."

She grinned and accepted the candy, carefully unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth, savoring it with a cheerful glimmer in her eyes, but he could tell from her uneasy silence that she was still anxious about the Reaping.

Rolling the tinfoil wrapper into a neat ball between her fingers, Rottie looked at Andrew and smiled. "It's funny," she noted, "I'm not as anxious about the Reaping with you here."

He returned her tender smile, his arm still draped around her shoulders. "And why is that?"

"I dunno," she answered, blinking alluring eyes of dark chocolate back at him, her heartbeat hastening. She could see his eyes beginning to flutter closed, his tongue swiping across his lower lip briefly as he leaned ever closer, until she could feel the warmth of his sweet-smelling breath on her face. The blood pounded deafeningly in her ears as she closed her eyes almost completely and prepared to close the tiny gap in-between them...

The front door to the orphanage opened with an ear-piercing screech of its rusted hinges, shattering the tender moment. Startled, Rottie pulled away from Andrew immediately, whirling in the direction of the open door, looking embarrassed.

A little boy stood in the door, clutching a raggedy stuffed animal to his chest, his tangled, pale blond tresses falling in his face messily as he rubbed the tiredness from his light blue eyes. He sniffed as he approached the two, the door closing behind him with another obnoxious creak.

"Rottie," he whimpered as he tottered over to the blushing young woman, sounding hoarse and unwell, "I don't feel good."

The pink pigment faded from Rottie's cheeks, her embarrassment replaced by a look of sincere concern as she outstretched her arms, welcoming the youngster into her embrace. "Cal," she murmured in a voice that was as tender as a mother's, dusting her lips across his forehead, "You have a fever."

"My throat hurts," the blond-haired child whimpered, giving his stuffed animal a squeeze, "And my tummy, too."

"Shh...," Rottie soothed, cradling him against her chest as she stroked his sweat-dampened hair, her brow furrowed with worry, "It'll be alright. Don't you worry, Cal. I'll take care of you."

"Sounds like he has a bug," Andrew stated, reaching out to touch Cal's forehead with the back of his hand, "And he definitely has a fever. Maybe we should take him to the doctor."

"The doctor?" Rottie prompted, "I could never afford that."

"But, I can," he interjected. With a glance at his watch, he added, "We don't have time to take him before the Reaping. It starts in thirty minutes."

Rottie frowned, giving the little boy in her arms a gentle squeeze. Cal looked up at her and, with a dim spark of curiosity in his grayish-blue eyes, inquired, "Reaping? What's that?"

She looked down at him and smiled wearily. Her answer was simple, "Just adult stuff. Nothing to worry about."

The child coughed. "I wanna go back to bed..."

Rottie nodded, hoisting him into her arms carefully as she rose. "Okay, back to bed with you."

"Will you lay with me?" Cal asked.

"I wish that I could, Cal," she replied, "But, I have to go to work. I'm sorry, sweetheart. You know that I would love to if I could."

He nodded, frowning sadly as he rested his chin on her shoulder, hugging his stuffed animal tightly. "I love you, my Rottie."

Rottie paused, smiling softly at the child in her arms as Andrew opened the door for her. "I love you, too, little man."

The walk to the town square was a lengthy one. Andrew's arm remained around Rottie's shoulders reassuringly until the hard-baked earth of the ghetto turned to stained concrete and cracked asphalt, the district's courthouse eventually coming into view. Flocks of people had gathered in the square, parents and relatives huddled together in clusters around the two roped-off rectangles of potential tributes. A colossal projector screen had been set up on the concrete stage in front of the courthouse, flanked on either side by a towering light structure and a speaker. A microphone stood in the middle of the stage, in-between two tables that were topped with large, glass spheres.

Rottie paused at the edge of the square. Even from a distance, she could see the countless slips of paper inside the spheres. Sixty-two of those slips were embellished with her name: Isabella Beten.

Andrew noticed her anxiety. "Hey, don't worry," he reassured her, squeezing her shoulders lightly, "It's not going to be you."

Reluctantly, she nodded and agreed, "Yeah. You're right. It won't be me."

"Looks like it's about to start," he noted, watching as the bright green-haired announcer pranced across the stage, her heels rapping against the concrete obnoxiously, audible even over the anxious murmurs of the unwilling audience, "Go sign in. I'll meet you after this is all over, and we'll head to the inn to fix those sandwiches."

"I'll seen you then," Rottie agreed, glancing at him longingly over her shoulder as she hesitantly walked away, reluctant to leave his side. There was no line at the sign-in station, where a middle-aged woman was waiting behind the table, wearing a doctor's mask and an irritated expression as she shuffled through a stack of paperwork.

"You're late," the woman chided as Rottie held out her hand. The black-haired teen winced as the pronged device in the woman's hand buzzed her fingertip, drawing blood. Jabbing the sign-in sheet with her pricked finger, she hurried away from the table and its ornery attendant, leaving a bloody fingerprint behind.

The orphan hurried to the front of the crowd to stand with the other eighteen-year-olds, just as the green-haired announcer's hand was coming down on the microphone, calling the uneasy onlookers to attention.

"Hello, hello, everyone," she chirped in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, "Welcome, welcome!"

The crowd answered her with uncomfortable silence, to which the Capitolite giggled anxiously and carried on with her chitchat, stumbling over her own words on more than occasion and often repeating herself. Rottie watched her in a numb daze, her thoughts trailing to Cal, who was asleep back at the orphanage, eagerly anticipating her return. She was only partially aware of the film scrolling across the screen behind the stage. It was something that she had seen many times before, a recap of the districts' rebellion and the obliteration of District 13, a dull recitation of the story behind the Hunger Games.

"Now, now," the announcer chirped, pulling Rottie out of her daze, "It's time for us to pick our tributes for this year's Hunger Games! Ladies first!" She concluded the line with another nervous giggle.

_She must be new, _Rottie decided, crossing her arms, listening intently as the woman fluttered across the stage to the table to her left. The Capitolite delved her hand into the glass sphere, burying her fingers in the horde of paper slips, shuffling them for a moment before she finally picked one. She plucked it out of the sphere and held it out for the audience to see.

"Ah! Here we are!" she exclaimed, prancing back over to the microphone as she unfolded the slip. She read the name to herself, then leaned forward and announced, "Isabella Beten!"

Rottie's heart skipped a beat, her pupils contracting to tiny pinpricks. "No..."

An audible murmur of relief passed through the audience, a few heads turning to look at Rottie while others skimmed the flock of young women, unsure of which face went with the name.

Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Rottie gasped, "No!" Sensing resistance, two of the Peacekeepers at the rear of the square stepped forward, eager to take action. Her lips twisted into a senseless snarl, the orphan turned and bolted, willing her feet to move faster as she ran. But, another Peacekeeper was ready at the other end of the square, seizing her by the arm and throwing her to her back on the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Still, she found the breath to gasp the word again and again, "No, no, no..."

The Peacekeeper pointed the device in his hand at her, an electrified barb sparking on its tip. Rottie whimpered, struggling to her feet, still gasping for air. "No!" she screamed, indifferent to the hundreds of eyes that had turned to watch her, "No!"

She yelped as the barbed weapon stabbed her thigh, sending a painful jolt of electricity through her right leg. She turned to dart in the opposite direction, but another Peacekeeper had closed in on her, seizing her by either arm and dragging her through the gaping crowd and towards the stage. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as the Peacekeeper shoved her up the stairs and onto the stage, her lips pulled back in a gruesome snarl that did not suit her delicate features.

The announcer watched uneasily as Rottie sulked over to her, growling at the Peacekeeper over her shoulder, cowering like a frightened cur, so strangely animal in her ways. A look of fright crossed the Capitolite's plastic features as Rottie's snarl turned on her, quickly replaced by her characteristic uncomfortable giggle. "Um...Isabella Beten, everyone!" she stuttered into the microphone.

"No," Rottie stated, the grimace melting off of her face, her brow drooping with sorrow as the silent tears dripped down her pale cheeks.

The announcer looked at her, pulling away from the microphone as she prompted, "I'm sorry?"

"No," the orphan repeated, "Not Isabella." Head bowed pitifully, she lifted a hand to wipe the tears off her cheeks with her sleeve. Then, she looked up, glaring out over the staring audience, her brow set in a look of solid determination. "No. Call me Rottie."

The Capitolite nodded and turned back to her microphone, "_Rottie _Beten, everyone."

A soft snarl rumbled through the orphan's lips before she finally looked away, staring at the toes of her mud-caked boots instead of at the startled crowd. The people were clearly stunned by such an open display of defiance, and she was beginning to feel embarrassed for not immediately accepting her fate and walking onstage.

The announcer walked over to the other sphere, plucking another slip of paper out of it. "Now, for the boy," she said, more to herself than to the onlooking audience.

Unfolding the slip, she read aloud, "Carson Mantle!"

All heads turned to stare at the red-headed boy, his freckled face contorted with alarm. Rottie recognized him from her days in the District 5 schoolhouse, when the two of them had been distant classmates. His father was the owner of the local morgue, a stark, concrete building with a tin roof known as the Mantle Mortuary.

Carson was a more willing victim than Rottie had proven to be. A heavy sigh shook his frame before he finally stepped forward, the wide-eyed boys around him parting to let him through. He wore a brave face as he climbed up the stairs to join Rottie and the green-haired Capitolite onstage, nodding to the latter as she introduced him to the audience.

Then, his eyes fell on Rottie.

She stared back at him, blinking twice.

"Now, now," the announcer chirped, wearing a sickeningly sweet smile and acting as though she had not just chosen two children to face their inevitable deaths, "Shake hands, you two!"

Carson hesitated, then extended his hand for Rottie to shake. She shuffled uneasily, finally accepting his hand and giving it a cautious shake. Three Peacekeepers were standing at the rear of the stage, observing her warily from a distance, their electrified probes ready in hand in case she made another unexpected move.

The Reaping concluded in a blur, an uproar of relief erupting from the crowd as the onlookers and their more fortunate children began to file out of the town square. Rottie skimmed the audience for Andrew, but found no trace of him, whimpering over her shoulder as the Peacekeepers stepped forth and dragged her into the courthouse.

"That was a risky move out there, little lady," one of the Peacekeepers snapped at her as he clutched her arm, dragging her down the cream-carpeted hall, watching with a sadistic sneer as she writhed in his grasp, helpless, "You're lucky that I didn't electrocute you again."

Heartbeat aflutter, Rottie snarled at him, her teeth bared. "As if you wouldn't have done the same thing!" she snapped back.

"Well, I don't have to worry about that, now do I?" He and his comrade released her, shoving her into one of the dimly lit rooms that framed the hallway, slamming the door closed behind her.

Rottie snorted, listening to the laughter of the Peacekeeper from the opposite side of the door, her anger gradually subsiding into sadness as she slipped into the shadows of her surroundings, listening to the voices arising from the room next door. Carson's family had come to bid him farewell, his mother's frantic tears and his father's wise words carrying through the wall. But, in the room that had become her temporary prison, there was only an abandoned, mahogany desk to keep her company. A dim light flickered overhead, a few dismal rays of sunlight seeping through the boards that had been nailed to the windows in preparation for the event.

She had never felt more alone.

Sniffling like a child who was frightened of the dark, Rottie cowered in the corner of the room, hugging her knees to her chest as she cried.

The door opened, flooding the floor with light.

Rottie lifted her head hopefully, forcing herself to smile mournfully as Andrew walked into the room, the door closing behind him. "Oh, Andrew," she whispered, her voice choked with tears, "Did you come to say goodbye?"

He paused in the middle of the room, his cobalt eyes dull with disbelief and sorrow as he opened his arms. She stood and bounded into his embrace, squeezing him so tightly that it was almost painful. "Guess those sixty-two pieces of paper pulled through after all," she sniffled, tears streaming down her cheeks openly now.

His arms wrapped around her tightly, he replied in a tone of desperation, "No, Rottie. This isn't goodbye. It isn't. You're going to go in that arena, and you're going to _win_, do you understand?"

She chuckled dryly. "I wish..."

"No, listen to me, Rottie," he demanded, squeezing her even tighter, "You're going to get through this. You have to."

With a solemn shake of her head, Rottie buried her face in his shoulder and replied, "I'm going to die, Andrew. I don't stand a chance out there."

"You do," he insisted, "And you _will_, Rottie. You're smart. You're clever. You're fast. You have just as much of a chance of winning this thing as anybody else."

She slowly lifted her head to look at him, her dark chocolate eyes quivering with tears. "Will you tell the kids that I'm not coming home?"

The sincere selflessness of Rottie's concern caused Andrew's expression to soften, his arms loosening around her as he stroked her back soothingly with both hands. "Oh...oh, Rottie," he whispered, "N-no, I won't tell them that. Those kids need something to believe in."

Voice soft, she answered, "They won't understand. I've never told them about the Games...I've been avoiding it for years now...and Cal..." She sniffled. "Who will take care of Cal?"

"I will," he volunteered, "I'll take care of your family, Rottie. You just worry about winning. I promise that, as long as I'm here, nothing will happen to them."

She nodded slowly. "T-thank you..."

He tilted her chin up with one hand, offering her a gentle smile. "You're scared, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm scared," she replied, "I'm terrified..."

"Come back to me, Rottie," Andrew whispered, so close that she felt each of his exhales on her face, his intensely blue eyes boring into hers, "Promise me that you'll try."

She nodded, burying her face in his torso as she hugged him even tighter. "You're my best friend."

A soft smile playing on his features, Andrew felt the first of the tears beginning to well up in his eyes. "I know, Rottie. You're my best friend, too. And I...I..."

The door opened, the Peacekeeper's voice cutting Andrew's sentence short, "Time's up!"

Rottie snarled, prepared to fight for just five more minutes with Andrew, but he silenced her with a soft purr of, "Shh..." Giving her a final squeeze, he looked into her eyes and vowed, "I'll see you soon."

Then, the Peacekeeper seized her arm and, with his sparking probe in one hand, pulled her away from her companion and out into the hall, dragging her out the back of the courthouse, where the sleek, silver train to the Capitol was waiting on its tracks.

"Good riddance," he snapped as he shoved her towards the train, causing her to stumble and nearly fall. But, she no longer had the energy to retaliate. Instead, she bowed her head, glancing back at the courthouse longingly as she boarded the train, soon to leave everything that she had ever known behind.

This was goodbye.

xXxXxXxXxXx

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"**Let's Play A Game"**

Rottie watched as the world outside her window whirred by, her expression blank as she stared out at the uneventful landscape aimlessly, eyes half-closed as the huddled in the window seat with her knees pressed to her chest. Eventually, the speed at which her surroundings were moving became overwhelmingly dizzying and she was forced to look away, closing her eyes as her thoughts trailed to Andrew.

She remembered the final words that he had spoken to her before the Peacekeeper had barged in and ripped her out of his embrace, dragging her out of the courthouse and shoving her into the train car before he slammed the door closed behind her, sealing her in her newfound prison. He had not had time to finish the last sentence, but she knew what he had intended to say. She could see it on his face, in the sapphire depths of his eyes, in the drumming of his heartbeat in her ear. It was the long-awaited confession, the one that she had so often tried to coax out of him before. It was the statement that would have changed Rottie's life. It was the three simple but powerful words that her heart had yearned to hear for almost four years: I love you.

And she knew that she loved him, too. She had loved him since the fateful day when he had rounded the corner and found her cornered in the alley, under the attack of a co-worker that she had foolishly provoked during school hours. From that day forward, she had known that Andrew was the one. The knight in shining armor. The hero. _Her _hero.

"So, who is he?"

Scowling, Rottie opened her eyes and turned to the redheaded teen. He was sitting in the chair across from the window seat, running a hand through his oily, unkempt hair. She arched a brow at him and snapped, "That's none of your business."

He chuckled uneasily, shaking his head. "Touchy, touchy."

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence before the redhead persisted, "He's not from Five, is he?"

She sighed. "No, he's not."

"Didn't think so. He looks too...clean to be from Five," he replied, anxiously picking at a tear in his own dirty jeans. With a knowing cock of his brow, he added, "Or any of the other districts, for that matter. Except for One or Two, maybe."

Rottie hesitated, then cautiously clarified, "He's a Capitolite."

The redhead grinned uneasily. "Thought so," he answered, "Peculiar, though. A Capitolite and a district girl."

"There's been stranger," she retorted.

"I never said that there was anything wrong with it," he replied, his wry smile fading into a light frown as he examined his lightly-freckled face in one of the nearby mirrors, "By the way, my name's Carson. Carson Mantle."

"I know," she muttered as she turned back to the window, wearing a seemingly permanent frown and dull, half-lidded eyes, "We used to be classmates, way back when. Remember?"

The redhead leaned forward in his chair, examining his short-cut nails. "Yeah. I remember. You were the one who was always running late. A few grades ahead of me, I think." He quietened down for a moment, then looked at her and stated, "You always seemed so depressed."

She shrugged, relieved when the door slid open and the green-haired announcer from the Reaping pranced into the room, bringing with her the rich odors of the dining car next door. However, her relief quickly turned to irritation as the woman waltzed over to them, wearing a blindingly white smile that was as fake as the magenta hue of her eyes and the glossy hair on her head. "Hello, hello!" she chirped as she sat down in the plush chair beside of Carson's, "My name is Shawnee, and I'll be your escort during your stay in the Capitol!"

A glimmer of agitation bloomed in Rottie's solemn stare. The woman reminded her of a green-feathered parakeet, with her fluttery, anxious movements and habit of repeating the same word multiple times before she finished a sentence. "Escort?" she snorted, her stare still fixated on the window as the world outside flashed by, "Are we going to tour the cussing place before you lock us in that death-trap arena?"

"No, no, no, of course not!" Shawnee replied, as if Rottie's question had been more than rhetorical, "I'm going to escort you from place to place before the Games! There will be a chariot ride and interviews and training sessions."

"You say that as if it's going to be fun," the orphan retorted as she watched a wheat field flash by her window through half-lidded eyes.

The Capitolite shuffled anxiously. "Now, now, Isabella. There's no need to have a bad-"

"It's _Rottie_," the young woman in the window seat snapped, "Not 'Isabella.' _Rottie. _Got it?"

"W-well," Shawnee stuttered uneasily, "Rottie it is." She cleared her throat, then stood, shuffling her feet anxiously.

"I'm going to go now. Your mentor will be in shortly," she informed them as she began to walk off, her heels clacking loudly on the tiled floor, "And dinner will be served in an hour. You two are in for a treat."

Rottie closed her eyes as she listened to the automatic door slide closed behind Shawnee as she exited the train car. Again, the rich, exotic smells from the dining car flooded the room, coaxing a grumble from the orphan's stomach as her nostrils twitched. "Guess she's right about _something,_" she stated, "The grub smells good."

"You don't have to be rude to her," Carson replied, "It's not _her _fault that we're here."

"Doesn't mean that I have to like her," Rottie retorted, looking over her shoulder as the door opened once more. This time, it was not Shawnee, but an intimidatingly tall, sharp-eyed man with pale blonde hair that cascaded down to his calves. An immediate sense of caution washed over her as the man of solid muscle walked over to them, sitting down heavily in the chair beside of Carson's.

"So," the man mused in a voice deeper than thunder, resting his chin in his massive hand, "You two are the kids that I'll be sending to the grave this year."

A low snarl rumbled in the back of Rottie's throat.

The blond-haired man snorted. "What? Is that supposed to scare me or something?"

Growling warily, she replied, "It should."

He laughed colorlessly and remarked, "That's cute, kid. That'll get you really far in the arena when you're faced with someone whose twice your size and hellbent on killing you."

Rottie's eyes narrowed at the giant of a man, but he only returned her contemptuous glare with a scarlet stare of his own, his red irises boring into hers until she finally averted her gaze, still growling under her breath. With an unamused roll of his eyes, he informed the tributes, "My name is Kaen. You two might remember me from the fourth Games. And, unfortunately, I'm your mentor."

Kaen leaned back in his chair and prompted, "Now, what are your names?"

"Carson Mantle," the redhead replied nonchalantly.

"Ah, I remember you," Kaen answered with a thoughtful nod, "The mortician's kid."

Carson nodded. "That's right."

Looking to the black-haired young woman in the window seat, the red-eyed man asked, "What about you, pipsqueak? What's your name?"

The orphan hesitated for a moment, chewing on her cracked lower lip diligently. Then, she replied, "Rottie."

Kaen snorted. "Rottie? Really? _That's _what your parents named you?"

"My parents abandoned me when I was a baby," she retorted.

Kaen, however, was unfazed. "Whatever, pipsqueak. I'm not hear to listen to your sob stories. I'm here to tell you how to survive in the arena...not that you stand a chance, anyways."

Rottie did not so much as flinch as the venomous words registered in her mind. Instead, she simply turned away with a frown, averting her gaze to the window once more as a dense forest flashed by. But, the lush, leafy trees so unlike the stark, decrepit foliage of District 5 had vanished an instant later, fading into an open field where a herd of large animals was grazing. Entranced by the dizzyingly blurry world outside her window, the orphan was only vaguely aware of the voices around her.

"Hey!" Kaen snapped, attracting her attention, "Are you listening to me? Dinner's ready. And I'm going to be giving you two some life-saving advice while we eat, so I suggest that you pay attention."

She replied with a solemn nod, but her eyes brightened the instant that she turned around and noticed the well-dressed man that had entered the car, bringing with him a wheeled cart that was lined with china dishes laden with food unlike any that she had ever seen. The luscious smells of her dinner flooded her senses with every breath, provoking a grumble from her stomach. The dainty dinner rolls, neatly carved meats, and bowls of steaming soup were so unlike the pots of unsightly mush that sometimes appeared on the orphanage stovetop. It was called oatmeal, but Rottie knew it as the tasteless, grayish pulp that kept eleven hungry mouths fed...

"Hey, kid," Kaen snorted as the server left the room, the whoosh of the sliding doors between the train cars dragging Rottie from her thoughts, "Try not to drool. You act like you've never seen food before."

Rottie realized for the first time that her eyes were locked on the dishes that had been set on the coffee table in the middle of the seating area, her mouth hanging open like a hungry dog's as her stomach grumbled. She looked away, embarrassed. "Sorry," she muttered meekly.

Already pulling the tender, white meat off of a chicken breast dressed in rich, brown gravy, Carson smiled at his district mate and urged, "C'mon, Rottie. Dig in."

Bony joints popping as she rose, Rottie walked over to the empty chair across from Carson and Kaen, sitting down wearily with an uneasy glance at her mentor, frowning severely. But, the delicious smells of her dinner soon overtook her caution, her fingers groping for a fork as she ogled the thick slice of medium-rare red meat in front of her. Finding her silverware, she began slicing over a fatty chunk of the meat, popping it into her mouth and savoring its rich flavor, unlike anything that she had ever tasted. In her entire lifetime, she had tasted beef only a few times, and it had always been the ground-up leftovers from the butcher, scraps of meat that turned into a greasy, grizzled mess on the stovetop – a definite improvement over the usual array of watery oatmeal and runny grits that kept her hunger at bay.

"So," Kaen began when their dinner was half-finished, eating even more ravenously than his trainees, "Do either of you have any experience with weapons? Or maybe a special skill that might help you in the arena?"

"I can use a scythe," Carson volunteered over a mouthful of bread.

The blond frowned. "A scythe, huh? You don't see many of those in the arena," he stated. Then, he turned to Rottie and prompted, "What about you?"

"I've never touched a weapon in my life," she replied.

Kaen sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, good," he remarked with a roll of his eyes, "Really, kid? You don't have _anything _that could help you out?"

Nibbling on her lower lip, she pondered his question, then responded, "I once bit a boy's fingers off."

Pausing in the middle of a bite, Carson shot her a peculiar look, then resumed chewing.

Kaen blinked, processing her words. Then, a devilish smirk spread across his smooth lips. "You bit someone's fingers off. And that's why you're called Rottie."

She nodded, a devious smile of her own playing on her cracked lips.

Propping his feet up amidst the empty dishes on the coffee table, Kaen informed her, "We can work with that." His haughty smirk fading, he added, "But, you're going to need a weapon, too. We'll have to work on that _and _your bad attitude."

Rottie snorted. "Why does it matter what kind of attitude I have?"

"Because," Kaen replied with a stern frown, "Sponsors don't like a bad attitude. The friendlier you are the better. These people might be complete nimrods, but they're also the ones with the money. The ones who can afford to send you gifts while you're in the arena. Food, water, a knife, a pack of matches...anything could be the difference between life or death. Keep that in mind the next time you open your mouth to make a smart remark, mutt."

She quietened down, processing his words with a thoughtful blink of her brown eyes. Then, quietly, she requested, "Tell me more."

Kaen smiled, pleased. "That's what I want to hear. You don't have to like me. But, just remember that I'm your new best friend," he informed her. Glancing at Carson, he calmly added, "And that goes for both of you."

The tributes nodded.

"It's getting late," Kaen observed, turning to the line of windows that framed the far wall of the train car. Outside, the sky was a deep shade of indigo, the sun sinking beneath the treeline. He stared out the window thoughtfully for a long moment, then nodded to himself and stated, "We'll wait until tomorrow to talk about sponsors. You two have been through a lot today. Get some sleep."

"Sleep?" Carson prompted, "The sun isn't even down yet."

"Tomorrow is a big day," Kaen reminded him, slowly rising from his chair to loom over the cluttered coffee table, "We'll arrive in the Capitol in the morning. Early."

With a crack of his thick neck, he turned to leave, then paused. "If you can't sleep, I suggest you turn on the TV and watch the reruns of the previous Games," he stated, pointing to the flat-screen television on the wall behind the seating area.

"The dining car is next door, if you're still hungry. Put on as much weight as you can before the Games. You're going to need it," he added as he exited the room, "Especially you, pipsqueak."

Silence settled on the room as Kaen left, the automatic door closing with a whoosh. Then, Carson stood and informed her, "He's right. I'm going next door for dessert. Want anything?"

"Sure," Rottie replied halfheartedly, "Something with a lot of fat."

He smiled lightly and nodded. "Got it. Why don't you turn those Games on while I'm out? We can watch them together."

The orphan nodded, waiting until Carson had left the room before reluctantly rising from her chair and approaching the enormous, flat-screen television. She groped the side of it for a power button, the screen flickering to life. A rerun of the fourth Games was on, the malicious snicker of a Career tribute from District 2 flashing across the screen as Rottie turned the volume down. The blond-haired teen was looming over the cowering form of a younger tribute, his mouse brown hair matted with blood as it streamed down his face from a head wound. She watched with peculiar fascination as the Career lifted his blood-drenched knife, the wounded tribute's face contorting with fear as the blade came down on him, sinking into the vulnerable flesh of his throat. The tribute writhed for only a moment before he went ominously still. The sound of a cannon firing in the distance could be heard over the malevolent chortle of the Career as he turned and calmly walked away, as if the other tribute's death had never occurred.

With a shake of her head, Rottie forced herself out of her peculiar daze of morbid fascination, bringing the remote with her as she sulked back to her chair, sinking into the pleasant softness of the plush, dark blue cushions. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sounds of a tribute's horrified screams as a swarm of trackerjackers chased her across the screen, her face swollen with the genetically enhanced venom of their stings.

Lounging in the comfortable arm chair with her eyes closed, the orphan began to fall asleep, blinking to keep herself awake. She realized for the first time how exhausted she was, even though the sun had only recently slipped beneath the horizon. She was on the verge of unconsciousness when a familiar voice startled her awake, the television seeming much louder in her exhausted state.

Onscreen, a much thinner, brown-eyed Kaen was looming over the blond-haired Career from the previous clip. His hair was much shorter, tied back in a short ponytail in ragged, blood-matted strands. The Career's arms were raised, shielding his face as Kaen demanded a plead for mercy from him. Rottie opened her eyes just in time to watch her mentor effortlessly tear the boy's left arm out of its socket altogether, slinging the limb aside in a rain of red. The Career shrieked like a possessed animal, shrinking to the ground in fear as he aimlessly clutched the newly opened wound, a fountain of blood spewing between his fingers as he covered the splintered fragments of bone that remained of his shoulder.

It was then that Carson returned to the room, carrying a silver tray laden with an assortment of Capitol treats. He set the platter on the coffee table as he settled into his chair, watching the television screen with an unexpected look of interest. "That Career should have known better than to take on someone as big as Kaen," he commented, taking a chocolate-covered strawberry from the palette of delicacies, "Even then, that guy was a tank. Solid muscle."

Indicating the platter, he added, "I didn't know what you like, so I brought a little of everything."

But, Rottie was silent, watching the screen with mingled emotions of disgust and awe. Kaen had easily reduced the Career to pleading tears in a single strike...

And she would, too.

xXxXxXxXxXx

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

In the presence of a six-foot tall mentor, an anxious escort who refused to curtail her chatter, two tributes, and a black-suited waiter who was keen on cluttering the table with a dozen platters of breakfast cuisine, the train car suddenly seemed crowded.

Shawnee had taken a seat across from Rottie at the breakfast table, her mouth open in a relentless stream of useless jabber. Carson sat to her left, silently unfolding his napkin. Kaen occupied the other end of the table, looming over the empty space in front of him as he barked orders at the surprisingly calm waiter. The black-suited server intently served them silver platters and china bowls laden with rich-smelling delicacies.

Ignorant to the people around her, Rottie instead turned to the flat-screen television that was mounted to the far wall of the train car, the reruns of the Reapings now playing onscreen. Evaded by sleep, the orphan had occupied her mind with reruns of previous Games for much of the night, until her anxious mind finally surrendered to a mere three hours of unconsciousness. Now, she was almost too exhausted to stay awake, tiredly slicing through a sausage link as she watched the District 1 Reaping. She was not surprised to see that both of the district's tributes were volunteers, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and beautiful.

"Career scum," Carson mumbled sleepily as he prodded an omelet with his fork.

"You're watching the Reapings. Excellent," Kaen encouraged through a mouthful of food, grease dribbling down his chin, "You need to know what you're up against before you enter the arena."

The feature transitioned into the District 2 Reaping. The announcer was a platinum-haired, elegant woman who seemed much more tolerable than the fluttery, childish Shawnee, who was presently going off on a tangent about how much she liked the strawberry jelly. The woman onscreen wore a stern smile as she said a few words in praise of the tributes, an auburn-haired, well-muscled young man with a glaringly confident smile and a frowning blonde with glinting, malicious eyes. Rottie paused in the middle of a bite of sausage, watching the latter pensively until she vanished from the screen with the beginning of the next Reaping.

Carson must have noticed her sudden tension. "Hey, Rot? You okay?"

The orphan snapped out of her trance and resumed chewing. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Kaen smirked and prompted, "What's the matter, runt? Upset because her hair's prettier than yours?"

She ignored him, eyes locked on the television as she busily spread butter on a slice of toast, watching the District 4 Reaping intently. The female tribute wore a brave smile as she walked onstage despite the tears in her eyes. Rottie snorted, but her amusement's at the tribute's fright quickly turned to horror as the announcer drew the second name.

The small, frail boy stumbled onstage clumsily, his smile one of blissful ignorance as he waved to the onlookers, his blue eyes strangely proud.

The knife in Rottie's hand clattered to her plate. "H-he's just a kid!" she gasped.

"Rottie, tributes can be as young as twelve," Kaen reminded her firmly, "Keep in mind that not all of them will be as old as you and Carson."

"B-but...look at him!" the orphan protested miserably.

"His name is Trent Klark," the mentor explained calmly, "He's severely autistic, from what I hear. I've heard that the poor kid's convinced that he's some kind of movie star because he was chosen for the Games. Can't speak well, either."

Carson replied with a solemn shake of his head, while Rottie's protests turned into uneasy silence. Kaen leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the edge of the table, causing the dishes to clatter. Shawnee directed a stern look at him, but said nothing.

"Well," Kaen remarked, picking his teeth in a way that clearly caused Shawnee's skin to crawl, "That's life."

"It's a shame," Carson conceded as he turned back to his plate, unable to watch the Reapings any longer.

With a shake of her head, Rottie picked over the remains of her breakfast, while Kaen turned back to the flat-screen to watch a rerun of District 5's own Reaping, his red eyes narrowed. The trio started when Shawnee unexpectedly jumped to her feet, pointing at the line of windows on the opposite side of the car frantically.

"Look, look!" the green-haired woman urged them.

With a roll of his eyes, Kaen turned to Rottie and Carson, who had already turned around in their chairs to look out the window. In a low rumble of a voice, he announced, "We've arrived."

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

Rottie laid on her back on the cold, hard surface of the stainless steel table, squinting in the blindingly brilliant lights that shone down on her from above. Nose wrinkled, brow furrowed, she glared at the jittery, blue-haired woman at her side, her hands busily applying wax to the orphan's boney legs. The tribute erupted into a snarl as the woman tore the wax paper free, bringing her leg hair with it.

The woman cringed, frightened. "P-please dear," she said, almost pleadingly, "Almost done. Just o-one more. I promise."

Brown eyes narrowed, Rottie laid her head back down with a begrudging snarl. She winced when the final strip of wax paper came free. Her thin, malnourished body – which had never felt the hot touch of wax or the sharp edge of a razor – was now hairless, primped to Capitol perfection at the clumsy hands of this jittery, blue-haired woman.

She whimpered when she heard a drawer open and close in the background. What was next?

A twinge in her brow as a pair of tweezers plucked at it answered her question. "Ow!" she yelped, one of her hands reflexively rising to clutch her forehead, "That hurts!"

"Hold still!" the stylist urged anxiously, "Patricia will be here any moment and you're not ready yet!"

"Patricia?" Rottie prompted, wincing as the woman continued to tweeze her unkempt eyebrows.

"Yes, she's your stylist," the Capitolite replied, "She's an _excellent _stylist, at that. You should be _honored _to be working with her."

"Honored?" the tribute snorted, "What's she going to do? Rip the rest of my hair out?"

The woman finished with Rottie's brow and retrieved the shower head, the metallic device attached to the nearby sink with a clear tube. The orphan shivered as a cold stream of water washed over her unclothed body.

"Patricia will prepare you for the opening ceremony," the stylist answered after a moment, "She will turn you – a dowdy district child – into something extraordinary."

Rottie snorted. "Good luck."

As if on cue, the door slid open. With wet locks of hair clinging to her face and neck, Rottie sat upright, water streaming down her back. Immediately, she was stunned, eyes wide and mouth hanging open comically.

Even the televised scenes from the Capitol that Rottie had seen over the years could not have prepared her for this. The woman before her was literally _purple_, her flawless skin dyed a sickly shade of lavender. Long, wavy tresses of green trailed down her back to her waist, two neat breads draped over her shoulders. Tattoos embellished her skin in swirling, chaotically curving shapes that were the same shade as her hair. Eyes of an equally brilliant shade of lime peered at Rottie from underneath a neatly curled fringe of bangs, glinting critically.

Rottie closed her mouth and looked down apologetically when she realized that she had been staring. "Sorry," she squeaked in embarrassment.

The lavender woman smiled forgivingly, seemingly unfazed by the orphan's astonished stare. "My name is Patricia Octerre," she introduced herself, "I'm your stylist." She dismissed the blue-haired woman with a wave of her hand, to which the lesser cosmetician squeaked softly and scurried out, the door seeming to vanish into the wall as it closed behind her.

Patricia ran a careful hand through Rottie's tousled, wet hair. "What beautiful hair you have!" she praised, examining a lock of it between her slender fingers, "Black with such lovely brown undertones. Very unusual."

"Thanks," Rottie muttered, flustered by her unexpected praise.

The Capitolite lifted the tribute's chin with one hand, staring into her deep, dark chocolate eyes for a long moment. Her expression was critical as she examined the orphan's features. "Here," she said, retrieving the tweezers from the tabletop, "I'll fix your eyebrows."

Rottie cringed and whined, "She already did that!"

"Well, she did a terrible job," Patricia remarked with a roll of her eyes, "She means well, but she's not the best at what she does. You know?"

The tribute whimpered as her stylist reached for her brow with the tweezers. "Be careful, okay? I've been poked and prodded enough for one day."

Patricia nodded, biting her lower lip as she focused on her subject's eyebrows. There was a soft pull, then another. The motion was so delicate and painless that it took Rottie a moment to realize that Patricia was tweezing her brow. Whereas every movement of the blue-haired woman's hands had caused the orphan pain, Patricia's work was swift and pain-free.

"There!" the Capitolite chirped, "All done!"

"Really?" Rottie asked with a curious touch of her brow.

"Really," Patricia stated, fetching a hairdryer and plugging it in, "C'mon. Let's get you off of that wet, cold table. Would you like a robe?"

Rottie beamed. "Please!"

"I'm sorry about Beatrice," the stylist replied, "Like I said, she means well. Since I don't have a prep team, I thought that I would hire her to 'help' with you. Just to give her a little extra money and something to do. Her salon isn't doing well right now."

The teen snorted as she donned the thick, white robe that Patricia offered her. "I wonder why."

Rottie closed her eyes as the hot air from the hairdryer tousled her sodden locks. The contented expression on her face caused Patricia to giggle. "Feel nice?" the stylist prompted.

The orphan answered with a nod.

"So, your name is Isabella Beten?" the Capitolite asked after a moment.

Rottie frowned. "Yeah, but call me Rottie."

"Rottie?" Patricia prompted, pausing to comb through the teen's unruly bob of hair, "Isn't that a breed of dog?"

Face lighting up, the tribute replied, "Yeah!"

Patricia looked curious. "So, you're nicknamed after a Rottweiler? Why?"

"Because I bit someone's fingers off once," Rottie replied bluntly.

The Capitolite stopped and looked at her, wide-eyed and stunned.

Unfazed by her reaction, Rottie carried on, "You see, I come from an orphanage. The other orphans used to tease me because I was the youngest. The little guy. One day, I lost my temper with them and...it just happened." She shrugged.

"I see," Patricia replied apprehensively as she brushed the orphan's hair.

"The old man who lives next to the orphanage has one. A Rottweiler, I mean," Rottie explained, "It was a real mean dog. We weren't allowed to pet it, or even go near it. He said that it would bite us if we tried. After that little...finger incident, the caretakers started calling me Rottie. It stuck."

"Isabella is such a lovely name," Patricia answered, "Don't you like it?"

Rottie shrugged. "I've been called Rottie for such a long time that it feels more like my real name now. The only people who called me Isabella were my parents, and I don't even remember them."

"Do you like Rottweilers?" the lavender woman asked, fetching a can of hairspray from underneath the sink.

The tribute nodded. "Yeah. They're admirable dogs. Big and strong...not like those little runts you have here. They can take up for themselves."

Patricia laughed as she spritzed Rottie's mane. "Do you know about the opening ceremony? And the chariots?"

"Of course. I have to watch it every year," Rottie replied. She looked down and griped, "Am I gonna have to wear some silly costume in front of all those people?"

The stylist smiled and responded, "Well, as you know, the costumes have to somehow represent your district. And District Five produces electricity for us here in the Capitol."

"I know," Rottie stated sarcastically, "I live there."

"I've already created the base for your costume. Because it would be impossible to throw together such a thing in a few hours. But, I like to give my tributes' costumes a bit of a personal touch," Patricia explained, rummaging through a drawer, "And you just gave me quite the idea for yours."

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Ready, Rottie?" Carson asked over the clatter of horse hooves.

Rottie swallowed hard. "Ready. You?"

"Ready," he replied, patting her on the shoulder reassuringly as the carriage in front of theirs began to move. A pair of gray horses were chained to their own carriage, its sides laced with glittery garlands and black roses.

Rottie's heartbeat pounded in her ears as the District 4 carriage vanished through the gates. Their own carriage began to move, the cheers of the audience audible before it even reached the gates. She glimpsed the backside of little Trent Klark, his hands thrown in the air as he cheerfully waved to the onlookers, before the roar of the crowd overwhelmed her, her mouth falling open in awe at the sheer size of the place. Technicolor Capitolites erupted into applause and wolf whistles of approval as the District 5 carriage rolled into the room, a shower of freshly cut flowers raining down on Rottie and Carson.

Carson was dressed in the long, black cloak of the Grim Reaper, currents of blue-white electricity coursing throughout the fabric and a sparking scythe clutched in his right hand – an eye-catching cross between death and Thor. Chains clattered around his wrists, ankles, and neck, their sound drowned out by the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves on the concrete floor and the shouts of the audience.

Rottie wore an equally electrified costume, clad in sparking, silver armor, her hands and feet dressed in clawed gloves and combat boots. A piece of metal reminiscent to the jawbone of an animal was mounted to the underside of her face, lined with sharp, jagged teeth. A metallic, spiked dog collar was fastened around her neck, emanating an eerie, blue-white glow. A dog-eared headband was tucked into her neatly groomed hair, her mane quickly growing frizzy in the presence of so much electricity.

And the crowd loved it.

Carson mouthed something to her, but his voice was drowned out by the noise. Their chariot ride was almost over, the previous carriages arranged in a neat line at the end of the path. A massive podium loomed over the chariots, the Gamemakers and the president watching the progression; though Rottie could not see it, she knew that it was engulfed in a protective forcefield.

The chariot finally came to a halt, flanked by the District 4 and 6 carriages. Ten minutes later, the District 12 chariot was finally stopping at the end of the line. The president – a black-haired, elegantly dressed man in his mid-forties – stood and stepped forth to address the tributes and the suddenly silent audience.

"Tributes," his voice boomed over the loudspeakers, "We welcome you to our shining Capitol. We are gathered here today to celebrate your courage, your dignity, your bravery. We wish you the best of luck and a happy Hunger Games!"

Rottie snorted incredulously. A happy Hunger Games indeed. It was the same speech that the president delivered every year at the opening ceremony. She had heard it countless times before in the Capitol's constant reruns of previous Games.

"Congratulations, tributes of the ninth annual Hunger Games!" the president concluded.

The audience joined him in a chant as he finished, "And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"You did well," Patricia commented as she escorted Rottie back to the fifth floor of the tributes' hotel, ushering her into her temporary bedroom.

"Thanks," Rottie replied lamely, sitting down on the edge of the queen-sized bed to pull her metallic boots off and set them aside.

Patricia opened the large wardrobe on the opposite side of the room, rifling through the clothes within. "You'll enjoy dinner, I think," she said, "It's like an all-you-can-eat buffet."

The orphan pulled the dog-eared headband out of her hair and ran her fingers through her black mane, surprised by how soft and glossy it seemed after Patricia's had tended to it. She then began the painstaking process of unfastening her complicated costume, carefully prying the metal plates apart.

From the wardrobe, Patricia selected a white blouse and a pair of denim leggings. "You'll wear this to dinner," she announced with a soft smile, laying it aside to aid Rottie with the removal of her costume.

One-by-one, the metal plates that covered Rottie's black bodysuit came free. Patricia stacked them in the floor as she unfastened them. Then, she slowly unzipped the tribute's bodysuit and helped her step out of the clingy spandex.

Patricia watched as Rottie re-dressed herself in her dinner clothes, her eyes intent on the sharp curve of her back and the jutting shapes of her ribs, each easily visible through her skin. She was not unfamiliar with malnourished tributes in her nine years of service, but this was the worst case she had ever seen.

Rottie noticed Patricia's stare. "Do you mind?" she demanded.

Patricia flinched. "Sorry, dear. I didn't mean to stare."

"I already know that I'm not much to look at," the orphan retorted, pulling the blouse over her head, "I don't need Capitolites like you pointing it out."

The lavender-skinned woman frowned and stated, "I'm not a Capitolite."

Rottie looked at her disbelievingly. "You're purple. You don't see that in the districts."

"I dye my skin once a year, in honor of the Games," Patricia replied, glancing at a mirror mounted on the nearest wall, "I don't like it anymore than you do, this purple skin and green hair and ridiculous tattoos. I only do it because I have to."

She reached into the pocket of her tight-fitting jeans and pulled out a patterned wallet, flipping it open in Rottie's face. Inside, there was a photograph of a woman with intricate waves of light brown hair falling down her lightly tanned shoulders, her arms wrapped around a blond-haired man as she smiled from ear-to-ear. The woman in the photograph was so natural that, at first, Rottie did not realize that it was Patricia, until she noticed her familiar, green eyes.

"This is...you?" Rottie prompted, uncertain.

"My husband and I, yes," the stylist replied, glancing at the photo herself before she slipped her wallet back into her pocket, "The skin and hair dyes are temporary. By the time you're in the arena, they will have faded almost completely. The tattoos are airbrushed on." With a sheepish grin, she added, "When the Games aren't in session, I earn a living by airbrushing tattoos and tee shirts for tourists in District Four."

Rottie hesitated, then asked, "If you don't like it, then why are you a stylist at all?"

"I don't like the Capitol. I don't like the Games," Patricia replied with an anxious glance around the room, her eyes clearly in search of nonexistent cameras, "But, I do like the tributes."

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. "Rot? Miss Lazuli? You're late for dinner."

"Oh, dear," Patricia said with a frown, "We'll be there in a moment, Kaen!"

There was no response, but the two could hear the massive man's footsteps as he stomped off.

"Miss Lazuli? Thought you said your last name was Octerre," Rottie questioned as Patricia carefully slipped the dog-eared headband back into her hair.

"It's a habit," the stylist explained as she guided Rottie to the door, "I've only been married for eleven months, so I'm still not used to my new last name."

She smiled as she led the tribute down the hall, the walls lined with polished, mahogany tables topped with intricate vases and expensive-looking lamps. "Speaking of which," she added, "You'll be able to meet my husband at dinner. He always tags along when I come to the Capitol, so he can see his friends here."

Uproarious laughter seemed to shake the floor as Rottie and Patricia entered the room at the end of the hall, where the District 5 crew had gathered around a massive, mahogany table lined with silver platters and china dishes, all teeming with delicious delicacies. Such earth-shaking laughter could come only from Kaen, who was carrying on with a comrade at the far end of the table, clutching a tall bottle of whiskey in one hand and a fork in the other. Rottie recognized the stranger as the man from Patricia's photograph. He, too, was laughing, though much more politely than her giant of a mentor. Rottie watched, strangely entranced, as peculiar, blond tentacles of hair bounced behind his head as he chortled. His smile was warm, friendly, inviting.

Shawnee cleared her throat when Patricia and Rottie entered the room, her expression one of annoyance as she glared at Kaen from the opposite end of the table.

"Look who decided to show up," Kaen chuckled as Patricia sat down beside her husband. The couple exchanged a tender smile, the man's eyes twinkling lovingly as he watched her.

"C'mon, runt," Kaen said, patting the chair next to his, "Sit down. Eat. Get a little meat on your bones. I need you as strong as possible for tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?" Rottie asked as she warily sat down between Kaen and Carson.

"Tomorrow, your training begins," Kaen replied. Rottie detected a malicious glint in his alarmingly red eyes. "I have three days to train you two as much as possible. And I have every intention of turning you both into killers."

Patricia glared at him. "Kaen."

"What?" he demanded, "It's the only way to survive in the arena. You two have to face the facts _now_. Eventually, you're going to _have _to kill someone. If you want to win, that is." He leaned back in his chair, picking a chunk of red meat out of his teeth. "Try that gracious, merciful saint shit out there. See how far it gets you."

"Kaen, let's discuss this later," the tentacle-haired man suggested, "Now isn't the time. You have two weeks to pound this into their heads. Right now, let them eat in peace."

Kaen snorted. "Fine, fine."

The man rolled his eyes, then looked at Rottie and Carson. "He's only trying to scare you. Don't listen to him."

There was another snort from Kaen, but his protests were drowned with a swallow of whiskey. Her plate empty, Rottie began to browse the assorted dishes around her for a roast or a steak – delicacies that she had only heard stories of, reserved for the district's rich men. But, the majority of the platters had been picked clean already.

A roll fell on her plate unexpectedly, slathered with cinnamon butter. The man across from her smiled and nodded reassuringly. "Try it. It's delicious."

Hesitantly, Rottie accepted the roll, taking a small bite of it and chewing cautiously. Then, she smiled. "Mm..."

"Good, isn't it?" the man asked, watching as she devoured the entire roll in a mere two bites, "You seem very hungry. Unfortunately, a greedy, big-mouthed brute ate everything before you and Patty had time to get here. How about I order you a steak?"

The tribute hesitated, then nodded timidly. Shawnee, Carson, and the stylists were too engrossed by their own conversations to notice their exchange, but it was not ignored by Kaen. The mentor grunted and warned, "You're spoiling her. Don't do that."

"I think she deserves it for a job well done at the parade," the man replied, "Besides, you're the one who gobbled everything up like you've never seen food before. She needs it more than you do, Kaen."

"Fine, fine," Kaen snorted, "She could use a little fattening up, I suppose. Just don't get used to it, kid. Remember that Ventace here won't be around to feed you in the arena. Learn to fend for yourself now."

Rottie grimaced. "You have no idea what life at the orphanage was like for me, do you? I suppose you'll find out all about that when I'm forced to pour my heart out to the entire Capitol in a few days."

"Orphanage?" the man prompted, "You're an orphan?"

She nodded, snatching a second roll from Kaen's plate and shoving it into her mouth whole, chewing loudly. She swallowed harshly, then turned to Ventace and replied, "Yeah. Parents dumped me when I was two. Never saw them again."

Ventace frowned. "How sad. Now, how do you like your steak?"

"I wouldn't know. Never had one before," Rottie responded.

"I'll order it medium, then," Ventace replied, more to himself than to her. He turned and clapped his hands several times. "Avox!"

From the other room, a thin, brown-haired woman appeared. Head down, she approached Ventace, carrying a pen and a pad of paper. She bowed respectfully when she reached him, as silent as the night.

"Yes, I'll have a sirloin steak. Medium, please," he instructed, "And an order of perch for my wife. That will be all, thanks."

The Avox nodded, bowed, and exited the room hurriedly.

Kaen sighed. "Ventace, Ventace, always so polite."

"Why wouldn't I be?" he demanded.

"They're Avoxes. You're _supposed _to order them around, not treat them like a gentleman. They're here for a _reason_, remember?" Kaen replied.

Ventace, however, seemed to ignore him. Instead, he turned back to the tribute and asked, "So, Rottie, tell me about your life back home."

"Not a lot to tell," she answered grimly, "Like I said, I'm an orphan. I work at a power plant. I don't really have any friends...except for one." Just the thought of Andrew caused her stomach to twist painfully, her heart aching for his companionship in this strange, foreign place. It was hard to believe that she had been with him only hours before, safe in his embrace.

"His name is Andrew," Rottie continued, tracing circles on her empty plate with a spoon, "He's the only real friend I've ever had. Never had friends at school. Or work. Then, one day, we bumped into each other and...we've been friends ever since."

Kaen smirked. "Well, isn't that sweet-"

A loud crash silenced him.

All heads spun in the direction of the crash, shards of china scattered across the tiled floor. A black-haired woman stood in the door, her mouth hanging open and her green eyes wide. Her entire form was as rigid as a statue, aside from the frantic rise and fall of her chest.

The initial astonishment of the crash faded and Kaen stood, flouncing over to the frozen woman and flinging an arm in the direction of the mess she had made. "You klutz! Clean this up!" he demanded.

The Avox did not so much as flinch.

Kaen roared and seized her by the arm. "I said, _clean this up_!"

The woman whimpered, her eyes panicked as she frantically clawed at his arm with one hand, her other flailing in Rottie's direction. Her eyebrows were drawn together pleadingly as she tried to pull him towards the tribute, pointing at her relentlessly and making strange, gargling sounds that would have been words if not for her severed tongue.

Kaen pried the Avox from his arm and shoved her aside. "Disobedient bitch!"

But, the woman only returned, this time clasping her hands together pleadingly after she pointed at Rottie. Tears streamed down her face, blackened with mascara.

"Stop, Kaen!" Ventace protested, on his feet now, "Aiko has never been disobedient to us. She's only trying to tell us something."

"Ventace, you know the rules!" Kaen bellowed, "You're forbidden to speak to an Avox unless giving them an order!" He pointed at the woman accusingly and added, "And _you_! You're completely out of line!"

The Avox cringed, frightened.

"Kaen, settle down," Ventace instructed calmly, "No one has to know. There are no cameras in the hotel chambers. I want to know what has Aiko so excited, and you're to keep quiet about it. Do you understand?"

Kaen snarled. "You're not the boss of me, Lazuli."

Ventace rolled his eyes. "Oh, hush," he huffed, "Now, Aiko, what's the matter?"

Again, the green-eyed Avox only pointed at Rottie, who was as equally astounded by her gestures as everybody else.

"Her? What about her?" Ventace asked.

Aiko looked at Rottie, then cautiously stepped towards her, her wary eyes fixed on Kaen.

"Go ahead," Kaen snorted.

Warily, the Avox approached Rottie. She paused when she was a few feet from her, placing a hand over her own chest. Rottie watched her, confused, until the woman began to pat her chest frantically, gurgling incoherently. Finally, Rottie reached down and touched her own chest, the shape of her locket tangible through her blouse. With one brow arched inquisitively, she reached under her shirt and pulled the pendant out for the woman to see.

"This?" she asked, incredulous.

Tears flowed down Aiko's face as she pounced on the tribute, engulfing her in the tightest of embraces, smiling from ear-to-ear as she erupted into silent, ecstatic sobs. As she looked down at the Avox, wide-eyed and confused, Rottie noticed for the first time the red-brown undertones in her hair and the thick, pinkish scar that marred the underside of her throat.

Kaen was the first to talk. "I have no idea what is going on here, but it's completely against the rules."

"Leave her alone, Kaen," Ventace warned.

"I hate to say this, but Kaen is completely correct!" Shawnee piped up from her end of the table, "This Avox has violated the rules! She must be punished!" There was a nod of agreement from Carson's stylist, but he remained otherwise silent.

"B-but, she's not hurtin' anyone!" Carson protested.

"It doesn't matter," Shawnee stated, "If one Avox is disobedient, then _all _Avoxes will become disobedient!"

Not even the hostile talk around her could convince Aiko to release Rottie, who shuffled anxiously in her arms. Instead, she only squeezed tighter, even when the arguments turned to raw commotion.

"Enough!" Kaen shouted, "We don't have time to argue! I don't know what has caused this Avox to act out of line. What I do know is, her contact with Rottie and our communicating with her are forbidden. All of us could get into a lot of trouble for this, which is why we're all going to keep quiet about it. Understood?"

His comrades nodded, then watched in silence as he approached Aiko. "Avox, release her. If you cooperate, I will not have you punished. However, you have caused quite the distraction to our dinner, and I don't have time for any more distractions in the next two weeks. So, I'm going to have you assigned to another hall. Understood?"

Aiko whimpered, her green eyes staring longingly into Rottie's for a long moment before she squeezed her a final time, then stepped back, her head bowed.

"Good," Kaen said, arms crossed, "Now, let's walk down to the lobby and have you re-assigned, shall we? It would be beneficial to you to behave."

Aiko nodded and followed him to the door, where another Avox stood, wide-eyed. Kaen paused as he passed her. "Clean up this mess," he instructed quietly.

The Avox nodded and immediately began to collect the fragments of the broken plate.

Ventace sighed as he sank back into his chair. "Wow, what a ruckus."

"Yes, indeed," Shawnee remarked.

"I wonder what _that _was about," Carson pondered aloud.

"It's strange," Patricia noted, "Aiko has worked with me for four years and has _never _shown disobedience, much less caused such a fuss."

"And she's never broken anything," Carson's stylist added.

"It's definitely peculiar," Patricia stated, "It's too bad that she couldn't tell us what happened to make her act like that."

Ventace leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Say, Rottie, would you still like a...Rottie?"

But, the tribute was nowhere to be found.

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler

Critique is _not _desired on this piece.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It was an hour after dinner when someone knocked on Rottie's bedroom door.

Tiredly, she lifted her head and prompted, "Patricia?"

"No," a familiar voice replied, "It's me, Ventace."

The orphan's head plopped back down on her pillow. "What do you want?"

"To talk, of course," he responded.

Rottie hesitated, then answered, "Fine. You can come in."

With a click, the door opened, then the blond-haired man walked into the room and sat down at the foot of the tribute's temporary bed. Rottie had curled into a tight ball with her pillow, laying on her side with sadness lingering in her dark chocolate eyes.

"You're upset," he noted with a frown.

"Of course I am," she replied uneasily, "Yesterday, I was at home with my family. My biggest concern was where I was going to find the money to buy their next meal. I was nervous about the Reaping. I always am. But, I never thought that...that it would actually be me. When I woke up yesterday morning, it never once crossed my mind that I wouldn't be coming home that night. I didn't know that I was going to be dragged here, undressed by a complete stranger, and then be shoved into an arena with twenty-three people who are all hell-bent on killing me. I didn't know...that I'd never see my family again..."

His frown intensified when he heard her sniffle. "There, there...," he tried to soothe her, awkwardly stroking her hair, "There's no guarantee that you won't ever see them again. You could win, Rottie. You have just as much of a chance as-"

"Cut the crap," she snapped as she lifted a hand to dry her eyes, "There's no use in filling my head with false hope. We all know that I have no chance of winning. I mean, look at me. I'm skin and bones. I've never touched a weapon in my life. I'm already half-starved. I give myself two days at the most!"

Ventace laid a warm hand on her shoulder. "Hush, now. There's no sense in beating yourself up like this," he replied, "You're stronger than you think, Rottie. I can tell. You're used to being hungry. You can do without food. The Careers can't. You're small, but you're scrappy. I know because I've watched your Reaping. I saw you struggle with those Peacekeepers. But, most importantly, you have something to fight _for_." He smiled. "Your family."

She sighed. "Whatever you say."

"And don't forget that Kaen will do everything in his power to prepare you and Carson for this. You're lucky, Rot," he said with a wink, "Your mentor is one of the best there is."

"He doesn't like me," she reminded him.

Ventace laughed. "Oh, Rottie, don't let him fool you. Sure, Kaen is one of the roughest, toughest people I know, but only when he needs to be. Behind closed doors, he's a big softie." He smiled and added, "You know, he has a pretty little wife and six kids at home. And he would do _anything _to make any of them smile."

The orphan's expression softened, her thoughts trailing to those she had left behind at home. "I know how that is..." For the first time since her arrival in the Capitol, her thoughts were on Cal and the fever he had developed immediately before her departure. Without her, who would take care of him...?

Andrew will, she reassured herself.

Silence fell on the room for a few minutes as Ventace leaned down to tie his shoe. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Rottie, do you have a boyfriend?"

Rottie's eyes widened in surprise, then she cocked a suspicious brow at him. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Carson mentioned it earlier, after you left the dinner table," the blond explained, "When we asked why you had left in such a rush, he suggested that you wanted to be alone because you're missing your boyfriend."

"Oh," she replied, "No, he isn't my boyfriend. Carson saw me with my best friend yesterday, before we left the courthouse. He's probably seen us around a few times, too. I can see how he would make that mistake."

Ventace smirked and prompted, "But, you like him, don't you?"

Rottie hesitated, then nodded softly as her cheeks slowly tinted red.

"I thought so," he answered with a chuckle, "So, do you want to talk about him?"

There was a flash of happiness and excitement in Rottie's eyes, but it was short-lived. Her smile melted into a frown and, with a droop of her brow, she hesitantly shook her head. "N-no. Not right now..."

"You must really miss him," Ventace noted, his expression sympathetic, "Just a word of advice, Rottie. You have an interview with Maurice Rodman in five days. I'm sure you've heard of him, haven't you?"

"Of course," she stated, "He's on TV every year, during the Games."

"Well, Maurice happens to be a personal friend of mine," he replied, "Trust me, Rottie. If you want sponsors, then you're going to want Maurice to like – no, _love –_ you. He loves a good show, and so do his viewers. But, there is _nothing _he loves more than a good love story. If you want his support, and the support of his audience, you'll want to mention this guy of yours while you're onstage with him. The entire Capitol will _love _it!"

With another smirk, he added, "And don't skimp on the details, either."

Rottie blushed, but nodded.

"Good," Ventace purred.

The orphan buried her face in her pillow, embarrassed. It was unlike her to unveil herself to an almost complete stranger like this, but there was a certain, inviting aura about Ventace that made her want to trust him and spill her secrets out to him.

"Ventace," she whispered after a moment of silence had passed between them, "How did you meet Patricia?"

"Oh?" he prompted, clearly surprised by her inquiry, "You want to know?"

She nodded.

"It's a long story," Ventace replied, "Are you sure?"

Another nod.

"It started when Patricia came to the Capitol," he began, "I've always lived here, but she was born in District Four. She and her aunt moved here when Patty was eighteen to begin her college education. Did you know that Patricia is actually a psychiatrist?"

"No," Rottie answered quietly, "What's a psychiatrist?"

"It's someone who studies patients with mental illnesses," he explained quickly, then continued, "However, after Patricia finished school, she realized that there were no jobs available for such positions. She also realized that, if she wanted to thrive here, she would have to pick a field that was popular with Capitolites. So, of course, she chose fashion and became a stylist." He lowered his voice and quietly added, "But, between me and you, she hates the Games and everything they stand for. I do, too."

"She told me," the tribute replied.

"Of course, Patricia wanted to be a stylist for District Four, but those positions were already taken, so she was moved to District Five at last minute," he carried on, "Her co-worker, Vinca, was in the same position. You see, Vinca was a close friend of mine, so I came to this hotel one day to talk to him. And that's when I met Patricia."

He paused, smiled, and informed her, "She was purple."

The traces of a smile tugged at Rottie's lips at this. "And was it love at first sight?"

Ventace laughed. "Oh, no. You see, I'm asexual. I was never interested in a relationship, not even when Patricia came along and made it very apparent that she was interested in me. To be honest, I was a little annoyed by her at first, with her constant flirting. But, when she finally gave up on me and gave me the chance to see the real her, that's when I fell in love with her. Of course, I didn't realize what had happened until, one day, it just...hit me. It hit me that I loved Patricia Octerre."

"How sweet," Rottie mused.

"It was the middle of winter when I realized it. The Games weren't in session and she had returned to District Four with her aunt for awhile. So, I hunted her down and told her about my little epiphany," he concluded, "We dated for five years before I finally proposed. We're happily married now."

Suddenly, the optimistic smile on his face faded, replaced by a surprisingly remorseful frown. "Unfortunately, our family is still a little incomplete, it seems. I've always wanted children, and I know that they would make her happy, too. But, it seems that, no matter how hard we try, we can't have them. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's her. But, in our four years of trying, we've never had any luck." With a shake of his head, he smiled halfheartedly and said, "I'm sorry, Rot. I didn't mean to go off on a tangent like that on you."

When the orphan did not respond, the blond added, "Patricia and I have considered adoption."

Immediately, Rottie lifted her head and looked at him. In the split second that their eyes met, Ventace detected the slightest trace of hope before it faded back into her dark irises. "Ventace," she said, serious, "I need to ask a favor of you and Patricia."

"What is it, dear?" he asked, concerned by the undercurrent of urgency in her gravely voice.

"Where I come from, the District Five orphanage," she told him, "There is a little boy named Cal. He's five. Blond hair, blue eyes. His mama abandoned him when he was only two months old. I've taken care of him ever since. But, in a week, I'll be trapped in that arena and, chances are, I won't come back out. What I want is...for you and Patricia to watch after him for me."

"You want us to adopt him?" Ventace asked, "Well, it certainly is a charming idea, but there's a lot of thought involved in choosing-"

Rottie's face fell.

The blond hesitated, then nodded. "I'll see what I can do, Rottie."

She forced herself to smile. "If you can do this one thing for me," she told me, "maybe I can die in peace."

"I'll talk to Patricia," he agreed, "And, who knows? If it doesn't work out with Cal, then perhaps someone else from the orphanage will be the right match for our family." He winked.

"Those kids are the only family I've ever known," she whispered as she laid her head back down, slowly closing her fingers around her heart-shaped locket, "I want to know that they'll be safe and loved without me."

Before he had time to respond, Rottie asked, "Ventace, who was that at dinner?"

"Her name is Aiko Velera," the man explained, "She has been an Avox in this hotel for four years. We're not really sure what's gotten into her, because she's always behaved with us before."

The tribute hesitated, then inquired, "Can you tell me more about her?"

"I don't know much. We're not supposed to communicate with Avoxes, so I only know what we were told when she first came to us," Ventace responded, "All we know is that she used to be involved with gang and drug activity in one of the districts. When the majority of her gang was taken into custody by Peacekeepers, she and her husband tried to run and somehow escaped the district. But, Aiko was injured shortly beforehand and didn't make it far. No one knows what happened to her partner, but she was taken in and Avoxed as punishment for her rebellion."

"Injured?" Rottie prompted, "Is that where that big scar on her neck came from?"

"I don't know, dear. We weren't told where it came from," he replied with a cock of his brow, "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just...curious," she answered lamely.

Ventace tilted his head to one side. "Is something the matter, Rottie?"

When she exhaled loudly, he suddenly realized that she was in tears once more. "The way she stopped and stared when she saw me and then grabbed my locket like she did...I just..." She choked. "I thought she might have been my mom."

Pity filled the man's eyes. "Oh, Rottie..." He rested a hand on her head, but she pushed it away.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, "I didn't mean to break down like this, but I saw her and how she acted and I just...got my h-hopes up..."

"Shh...," Ventace whispered, again attempting to stroke her hair. This time, she did not resist. Instead, she laid still and allowed him to soothingly stroke her, until her sobs finally died down.

"Shh...," he repeated, slowly trailing his hand down to her back to draw invisible shapes on her shoulders, "Aiko has no children, dear. I don't know what happened tonight, but it's nothing to fret over. Probably just a misunderstanding."

"Maybe my parents will see me on TV," she whimpered, wiping her tears on her pillowcase, "Maybe they'll see me and want me back!"

His heart broke for her as he continued to draw on her back in a feeble attempt to comfort her. "Please, don't cry, sweetheart...," he murmured, "C'mon. No more tears. You're going to make yourself sick."

"Kaen is probably disgusted with me," she cried, "for being such a weakling and crying like this."

"He doesn't have to know," Ventace stated, "I won't say a word about it if you don't." He patted her on the back and smiled. "Now, you never had your steak. You must be hungry. Would you be interested in it now?"

"No, I'm tired," she said.

"It's almost two o'clock," he replied with a glance at the nearest clock, "You're right. You should rest. Tomorrow, Kaen will start your training. He'll be hard on you. And Carson, too. But, remember, he's only trying to help. Now is the time to be strong, Rottie."

"I know," she answered weakly.

He smiled as he stood and pulled the blankets over her. "Patricia will be in shortly, wanting you to change into your pajamas."

She nodded.

"Good night, dear," he said, watching her over his shoulder as he neared the door, "Sleep well. I'll make sure to save you something good at breakfast tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," she replied.

With a final smile, Ventace left the room. The door closed with a click behind him.

To his surprise, Patricia was not in the main room with the others, but waiting for him in the hall, her arms crossed playfully as she smiled at him. "Did someone have a heart-to-heart with my tribute?" she asked.

"She's a mess," he replied with a halfhearted smile, "Whatever happened at dinner spooked her. Not to mention that she's homesick."

"I can understand," she said as she adjusted the collar of his shirt, "So, what did you two talk about, besides what happened at dinner?"

"Her home, mostly," Ventace answered nonchalantly, "She really misses the other orphans. You can tell that she's worried about them. She thinks that no one will take care of them without her there."

"Just wait. Once word spreads that she's from that orphanage, Capitolites will tear each other apart, trying to get to those kids," Patricia responded, "Especially if Rottie does well in the Games."

"Still, I'm worried about her," he stated. He shifted from foot-to-foot as if he was anxious, then looked at her with a nervous smile. "Say, Patricia..."

The lavender-skinned woman looked at him suspiciously. "Uh-oh. What's going on? You're giving me the face that you only make when you have some crazy idea."

"Since we haven't had much luck with...making our own baby," he proposed, "I think it's time to consider adoption. And, as you know, Rottie is an-"

"Oh, no, Ventace," Patricia moaned, "We can't adopt _her_. She's eighteen! _If _she manages to survive the Games, she'll be ready to start her own life. She's not a kid anymore."

"I know, I know," he replied, "But, Patty, she's been all alone all her life. She wants someone to take care of her. She _deserves _to be a child for once, if only for a little while."

She sighed. "Ventace, how can you be so sure? Even if it is true, what about the Games? I don't want you to develop too much false hope. You know how these things usually end. You meet the tribute, you fall in love with them, you think that maybe, for once, you have a winner. And then, before you know it...you're watching the life fade out of them onscreen."

"I know, Peppermint," he said, "But, I believe in Rottie. I'm not saying that she _will _win the Games, but, if she does...I want to adopt her. I want to try."

With a shake of her head, Patricia smiled. "I know you do," she said as she enveloped him in a tender embrace, "You're a saint, Ventace Lazuli. You always have been."

xXxXxXxXxXxXx

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Storyline, Characters, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler

Criticism is _not _desired on this piece.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

When she was awakened by the high-pitched drill of her alarm clock, Rottie was exhausted. She rolled over in her temporary bed and buried her face in her pillow, silently hoping that the ear-piercing shriek of a sound would soon vanish. Through the wall, she could hear the same sound from Carson's room, punctuated by a tired groan that suggested that he had suffered through an equally sleepless night.

There was a knock on the door. Patricia asked for permission to enter, but Rottie could only mumble in response. After a moment, the lavender-skinned woman let herself in, quietly switching the noisy alarm clock off.

"Good morning, Rottie," Patricia said as she opened the tribute's wardrobe, beginning to rifle through its many contents.

"Mornin'," Rottie managed tiredly, watching the woman flit about from the warmth and safety of her bed sheets.

Patricia closed the wardrobe and laid Rottie's outfit at the foot of her bed. It consisted of a zippered, black-and-red shirt with tight, black sweatpants and a pair of tennis shoes with thick soles. "Your training begins today," she explained as she spread the attire across the mattress, "All of the tributes are required to wear this."

As she headed towards the door, she added, "Kaen's alarm clock is supposed to go off in ten minutes. If you want your fair share at breakfast, then you might want to get up and get there before he does."

Breakfast was uneventful. Patricia, Ventace, and Carson's stylist, whose name Rottie still did not know, quietly conversed over pancakes, while Shawnee babbled aimlessly to no one in particular. Kaen was preoccupied with shoving as much into his stomach as possible, while Rottie and Carson picked over their meals silently.

When mealtime concluded, Kaen escorted his tributes to the lowest floor of the hotel. Rottie and Carson quietly marveled at the elevator, a wonder that their eyes had never seen, but their fascination quickly faded when they reached their destination. The bottom floor of the hotel housed a massive gym, equipped with dozens of training stations and an impressive arsenal of weapons. Tributes of the other districts had already gathered in the gym, busily training while watchful Peacekeepers and Gamemakers surveyed from afar.

Kaen paused and looked at his prospects. "Now, listen up, you two," he said firmly, "I can't be here to watch you. However, I _can _give you a little advice. Do not – I repeat, do _not –_ skim over the survival stations. Visit as many of them as you can. Next, don't try to pick a fight with the other tributes. Not only will you bite off more than you can chew, but it'll land you in a heap of trouble with the Peacekeepers. Lastly, save your best skills for last. Don't show them off unless you absolutely _have _to. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Carson replied simply.

Rottie nodded.

"Good," the mentor beamed, placing his massive hands on their shoulders, "Make me proud, you two."

"Yes, sir," Carson responded.

Kaen nodded, then turned and walked out of the room. The two stood in silence for a moment, then Rottie turned to her comrade and asked, "Where should we head first?"

Carson looked around, then replied, "Let's learn how to trap first."

Without hesitation, Rottie followed him to the station, where a young, dark-skinned woman was toying with a frayed length of rope. The two listened carefully as she introduced herself, then explained how to craft an assortment of traps, ranging from pitfalls to tripwires. She concluded her instruction, then handed them the supplies to test their trap-making skills.

Sitting in the floor with a coil of wire in his hands, Carson watched, half-amused, as Rottie fumbled over her own fingers. "Here," he whispered after a moment, taking a rope from her, "Let me help."

As Carson's deft fingers tied the rope into a secure knot, Rottie watched carefully. "You know, you should let me do it myself. You won't be there to help me in the arena."

The redhead handed the knotted rope back to her and smiled halfheartedly. "Of course I will," he stated, "We're allies."

Rottie stared at him, dumbstruck. Not once had she considered the possibility of an alliance with Carson, or any of the other tributes for that matter. But, now that he mentioned it, he was undoubtedly her safest gamble for a comrade in the arena.

Carson sensed her hesitation. "Rot, can I...trust you?"

The orphan hesitated, then cautiously nodded. "Yeah."

He smiled and nodded. "I thought so," he said, dutifully unraveling the coil of wire and beginning to piece together his trap, "You've always seemed trustworthy to me, the few times that I've seen you around. Tough and rugged, for sure, but also...motherly."

Rottie was silent, loosening the knot that he had tied in the rope and attempting to recreate it myself. "Knots," she hissed unhappily, "Not my specialty."

He looked at her with a lopsided grin. "How do you keep your boots tied, then?"

When the other tribute had no response, Carson resumed his work with the tripwire, stringing it between the table legs. He paused when a loud, hollow thunk resounded through the entire gym, snagging his attention. Rottie, too, stopped and looked in the direction of the sound.

In the center of the gym, the female tribute from District 2 stood at the spear station, her bleach-blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail as she hurled another slender, silver shaft at a training dummy. The spear soared through the chest of her target effortlessly.

Carson frowned. "Looks like her mentor didn't tell her what Kaen told us."

"What a show-off," Rottie agreed, eyes narrowed distastefully, "Stupid Careers."

Tired of his work with the tripwire, Carson stood and motioned for her to follow. "Her name's Christina Lofthorn," he said as he led Rottie towards the fire-building station, "Kaen mentioned her. I don't think I need to tell you that he wants us to watch out for them in the arena."

"Watch out for them?" she sneered, "They're the first ones I'm going after. Better to take them out early than keep them around for the finale."

"But, Kaen said-," Carson protested.

"Kaen said to avoid conflict. He never said that we can't watch them and find out their weaknesses," she stated.

He nodded. "Well, she obviously knows what she's doing with those spears."

"Long-distance throwing weapons," Rottie agreed with a frown, "Not good."

"I doubt that's _all _she knows how to use," he added, the acid obvious in his voice.

"Guess we should learn to use weapons, too," the orphan replied, "You can use a scythe, at least."

Carson looked around as he sat down at the fire station, ignoring the instructor's rambles as he began to construct a small blaze between his legs. "Do you see one anywhere?"

Rottie skimmed the lines of weapons that scattered the gym and answered gravely, "No."

"Suppose I could hone my knife skills instead," he replied.

"I wonder what kind of weapon I should use," she pondered aloud, grinding two twigs together in an attempt to conjure a fire, "These blades look heavy. I don't think I can lift them."

"I can teach you to use knives," the redhead offered as he doused his small fire.

"I don't know," she responded, "My aim is pretty poor."

"I don't know how to throw them well, either, but that's what training is for," he replied.

Rottie looked around and answered, "I wish there was something here that would do more damage than knives, but everything else looks so heavy..."

"Maybe there'll be something else at the cornucopia," he suggested, "You never know."

She continued to skim the rows of weapons, when she stumbled across a selection of axes, ranging in size from extremely large to reasonably small. "Hey," she chirped, pointing the smallest of the axes out to him, "What about that?"

"A hatchet?" he observed, surveying the hand-held weapon, "Small and crude, but efficient."

"A...hatchet," Rottie repeated, tasting the new word on her own tongue, "Do you cut wood with it?"

"Small blocks of it, yes," Carson replied.

The orphan blinked longingly at the weapon station, then glanced down at the pile of dry leaves and brambles that she was trying in vain to ignite. With a sigh, she dropped the sticks and stood. "C'mon. Let's check it out," she said, "Maybe we'll find something we like."

Carson stood and followed her there, replying, "I'll take care of our fires in the arena, then."

Rottie led her comrade to the weapons station, where the District 2 tributes had also gathered, quietly musing over the weapons with vile smirks on their faces. The orphan minded her distance, curling her pale fingers around the cold, metallic handle of the hatchet. "Looks like it could do some damage," she mused.

"Definitely," her companion agreed, "See if you can-"

"Move," a stern, female voice interrupted.

Rottie turned in the direction of the voice, the hatchet absentmindedly clutched in one hand. It was Christina, her arms crossed and her eyes cruel. Feet planted in place, she demanded, "Who's going to make me?"

The blonde's eyes narrowed. "No one can get to the weapons if you're blocking them, you know," she said impatiently, "Now, move or be moved. Your choice."

The orphan moved aside, though only enough for the other tribute to narrowly pass by, her body still poised in front of the weapons that she and Carson were currently examining. "Have it your way," she seethed warily.

With a roll of her ice blue eyes, Christina grabbed a set of knives from the table and flounced off to train with them. A low snarl rumbled in the back of Rottie's throat as she watched her leave, her shoulders hunched and tense like an animal on the attack.

Carson laid a cautious hand on her shoulder. "Let it go, Rot," he advised, "There'll be plenty of time to deal with her later."

"And you can bet your _ass _that I'll deal with her," she snarled.

Hands on her shoulders, the redhead carefully spun her around to face him, his expression stern. "Not until after the bloodbath, okay? I don't want you getting yourself killed right away just to deal with her."

"I won't," she promised, but, inwardly, she scolded herself. Already, she and Carson were the victims of a budding friendship. She was going to become attached to him, only to watch him die in the arena in less than a week.

"Good," Carson replied, "Now, try a larger ax. The bigger, the better."

With a nod, Rottie laid the hatchet back down on the table, then turned to a slightly larger weapon. She grabbed the metallic handle with both hands, grunting as she tried to lift it, quickly realizing that it was entirely too heavy for her. Finally, she managed to lift the ax, spinning it in a clumsy circle as she lost her balance beneath its weight and fell on her bottom.

The Careers watched her with amusement, erupting into laughter. A few of them were almost doubled over in laughter, pointing at Rottie and taunting her aloud.

Anger boiled in the orphan's stomach as she stood, the hefty ax clattering to the floor. She blindly grabbed the nearest weapon, which happened to be the hatchet that she had held only a moment before. Before she realized what had happened, she launched the weapon across the room, the blade narrowly missing a District 1 tribute's head as it hurtled through the air and stuck in the face of a training dummy, sinking into the Styrofoam with ease.

There was a shout from the other end of the gym as a Peacekeeper rushed over to disrupt the conflict, seizing Rottie by the arm. The tribute cringed and frowned apologetically, but not at the dumbstruck Careers.

Carson and Christina watched as the Peacekeeper loudly upbraided Rottie for her bad behavior, the former sighing with a shake of his head. The Peacekeeper released the tribute with only a warning, but promised her a more severe punishment if she disrupted the training session again, to which Rottie sulked off, growling under her breath.

Carson trailed after her and demanded, "What the hell was that about?"

"They laughed at me!" Rottie snarled, glaring at him over her shoulder, "They had the nerve to _laugh _at me!"

"Kaen told us not to pick fights this early on!" he reminded her angrily.

"But, they laughed at me! It would've been weak to stand there and let them!" she protested.

"Would you rather the Gamemakers punish you as soon as you set foot in the arena?" he demanded, "You have to fight this battle with your _head_, Rottie. Not your damn pride."

Rottie hesitated, her head bowed.

"You have to behave if we're going to be allies," he informed her, "I can't hang around someone so hot-headed in the arena."

"I...I don't know what got into me," she confessed, "I felt...different. Not like myself."

"Kaen will be all over you, if he finds out about this." Carson sighed, then turned and began to walk off. "C'mon. Let's just get back to training. Try not to cause anymore trouble."

* * *

"The two of you will have lunch here," Kaen explained as he stood inside the glass-walled elevator with his tributes, "The Gamemakers will call you in, one-by-one, for your private session with them. Remember, this is _crucial _to your survival in the arena. Your score here determines what kind of sponsors will be interested in you. The higher your score, the better."

"Yes, sir," Carson replied with a nod.

"Rottie, behave yourself," Kaen reminded her, his hand firm on her shoulder. Two days had passed, but he had been harder on her after the incident in the gym during her first day of training. Rottie and Carson had used the time to hone their weaponry and survival skills. The former had even learned how to tie secure knots and spark a small fire.

The mentor looked down at his prospects as he led them out of the elevator and into the dining room, where tributes from four other districts were already gorging themselves on the Capitol's delicacies. "Make me proud," he whispered to them before he promptly turned and left.

Carson and Rottie quietly settled down in their designated seats, filling their plates and beginning to eat in silence. The other tributes arrived in eerie silence, exchanging anxious glances with their district mates and potential allies.

When all of the tributes had arrived, the lights over the table dimmed, a massive, wide-screen television at the front of the room sparking to life. A beautiful, fair-skinned woman appeared onscreen, a stern smile on her smooth lips. She was a natural beauty, with her long, black-and-white tresses and gentle, ice blue eyes, so unlike the technicolored Capitolites that Rottie had seen so far.

"Greetings, tributes of the ninth annual Hunger Games," the woman said. To Rottie's surprise, the woman had a powerful, Southern accent.

"I am Orca Octerre," the woman explained, "Today, it will be your responsibility to impress us Gamemakers. Your performance in the private session will determine your overall training score. Your scores will be publicly announced on television at eleven o'clock tonight. Remember, tributes, the Head Gamemaker, Mister Kaigo Vallington, will be watching. Now is your time to prove yourself. Do not disappoint us." After a moment, she added, "And may the odds be _ever _in your favor."

A few anxious murmurs coursed around the room as the lights over the table brightened and the screen faded to black. Then, Orca's distinct voice was heard over the intercom, "From District One, Chandler Corsica."

The Career tribute stood and nodded to his companions, smiling confidently as he vanished into the elevator in the corner of the room. For a few minutes, only the Careers spoke, before the other tributes uneasily resumed their conversations and meals.

"She doesn't seem like a Gamemaker," Carson noted over a mouthful of corn, "Seems too sweet. Too...homely."

"I don't think she's a Capitolite," Rottie replied, gulping down a plateful of meatballs and mashed potatoes, "She looked...real."

"Not to mention that accent," he agreed, "Sounds like she's from District Four."

"Like Patricia," she noted.

"Who?" Carson prompted, retrieving a plum peach from the middle of the table.

"My stylist," Rottie replied, "She's from District Four, too."

Chandler reentered the room and the intercom spurred to life, "From District One, Velvet Anderson."

The District 5 tributes watched as the black-haired teen rose and pranced into the elevator. She seemed delicate, like a porcelain doll, but both of them knew that, as a Career, she could not be underestimated.

"Velvet and Chandler will be a threat, no doubt," Carson whispered in her ear while the Careers were distracted, to which she nodded in agreement.

Velvet pranced back into the room, then the District 2 male was called in. He was blond-haired and beautiful, like his dreadful district mate, who soon rose and vanished into the elevator. Rottie watched her leave with a glare on her thin features.

"You don't much like her, do you?" Carson laughed quietly, "I can't say that I blame you." He grabbed two puff pastries from a plate in the center of the table and offered her one. She accepted it, shoving the entire pastry into her mouth as she watched Christina return and the District 3 male rise and exit the room. It was a slow, painstaking business that quickly bored the tributes.

The District 3 male returned in silence and his female counterpart rose to take his place. When she reentered the room several minutes later, Rottie watched in revolt as blue-eyed, blissful Trent Klark rose from his seat and left the room, beckoned forth by Orca.

"Poor kid," Carson said, voicing the orphan's thoughts.

There was a snicker from the far end of the table, where the Careers were all seated together. "He won't survive the cornucopia," one of them chortled.

Rottie heard Christina reply, "We'll make sure of it. Career or not, he's hardly worthy of our alliance."

"Better to eliminate the weaklings early on," another voice added acidly.

Rottie leaned back in her chair, quietly sipping tea from a dainty cup. Then, loudly, she stated, "I hope he kicks all their asses."

Velvet's head whirled in her direction. "Do you have something to say to us, District Five _scum_?"

A Peacekeeper interrupted from the end of the room, "Settle down."

But, the orphan was unfazed by the uncreative insult, watching in silence as Trent returned to the room and his district mate departed from the dinner table.

"Rot," Carson whispered after the air had cleared, the Careers carrying on amongst themselves once more, "What are you doing? Do you _want _to start something with them?"

"They're all bark and no bite," she replied quietly, "That's a bad quality to have in a dog fight."

"You're going to get us both in trouble, Rot," Carson warned, "Please, save it for the arena. You're probably already on their to-kill list after that incident in the gym."

The intercom buzzed to life and Orca called, "From District Five, Carson Mantle."

"You're up," Rottie said, patting him on the back as he stood, "Good luck."

The redhead nodded his thanks, then stepped into the elevator. Rottie watched him sink beneath the floor, where the Gamemakers awaited him. Her heartbeat hastened, anxious about what was soon to come. Even now, she was uncertain of what to do once the Gamemakers were watching.

More than once, Rottie felt the eyes of the Careers on her from the end of the table, but she ignored them, casually sipping her warm tea. She seemed calm, but still flinched when she heard Carson's footsteps behind her and Orca's voice state, "From District Five, Isabella Beten."

"Good luck," Carson whispered as he watched her stand and walk into the elevator. She waved to him nervously as the doors slid closed around her, the elevator beginning its slow descent into the basement.

Rottie exited the elevator with a gulp, pausing when she reached the station in the center of the gym, a blaring spotlight beaming down on her as she examined the arsenal of training dummies and weapons around her. "Rottie Beten," she introduced herself, "from District Five."

From the platform above her, a brown-haired man with thin, seductive features nodded. A black-haired woman with eyes of two different colors sat in the chair beside him, his hand rested possessively on her knee. Rottie recognized him as the infamous Head Gamemaker, Kaigo Vallington.

Kaigo glanced at his watch, then stated, "Begin."

Rottie seized one of the hatchets from the weaponry table, slinging her arm in the direction of a training dummy. The thick, metal blade easily cleaved through the Styrofoam, the target's head dropping to the floor. A second head joined it half a second later. While the orphan was undoubtedly swift and potent with her blows, there was nothing particularly impressive about her display. She needed to excite the Gamemakers, she decided – and she needed to do it fast.

With a snarl, Rottie dropped the ax, which clattered to the floor noisily. Then, she leaped on the nearest dummy, her fingernails sinking into the Styrofoam like claws, her teeth fastened in its neck. She tossed her head like a crazed animal, flecks of the material flying down her throat as she ripped through it with ease.

The third head fell to the floor with a muffled thump, bits of Styrofoam lodged in Rottie's teeth as she launched herself at another target. This time, she ripped a chunk of the soft material from the dummy's throat, then grabbed her ax and cleaved through what remained of its neck with ease, spitting Styrofoam on the floor as she did so.

"Enough," Kaigo called from the platform, glancing at his watch once more.

Rottie did not answer or thank him. Instead, she turned and stalked towards the elevator in silence, the hair on the back of her neck bristling. A low snarl seethed through her clenched teeth as the doors closed around her and the elevator began to rise.

When she reached the dining room, the orphan seemed calmer, sitting down beside Carson and immediately scouring the buffet for a steak or roast.

"So," Carson whispered after a moment, "How was it?"

"I think it went well," she replied, suddenly aware of the sharp pain in her skull, "I have an awful headache now, though." She lifted her hands to rub her temples.

"Really?" the redhead asked, "You must've overexerted yourself. If you don't mind me asking, what...what exactly did you do?"

Rottie opened her mouth to answer him, but her mind was blank. Lips drawn together in a tight line, she used a pair of tongs to lift a juicy sirloin onto her plate, prodding it with a knife.

"You know," she said after a moment, "I don't remember."

* * *

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

Characters, Storyline, Etc. (c) Bottled-Rottweiler

Critique is _not _desired on this piece.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"I still don't understand," Carson said as he led Rottie into the glass-walled elevator, "Less than two minutes after your private session, you completely forget what happened. It doesn't make sense, Rot."

The orphan closed her eyes, massaging her tender temples as the elevator ascended. "I don't understand it either, Carson," she replied, "All I remember is walking in, introducing myself, and chopping the head off a dummy with an ax."

Bewildered, he retorted, "You must have an awful memory."

With her eyebrows screwed together in pain, she silenced until the elevator reached its destination. "This headache," she moaned as she stumbled into the hall after him.

"I'll ask Kaen for painkillers for you," the redhead volunteered as he hurried off. In too much pain to notice his disappearance, Rottie continued to mumble to him until she reached her bedroom. Blindly, she groped for the doorknob, until the cold, brass orb found her hot, sweaty palm. She stumbled into the room and closed the door behind her, managing to kick her shoes off and drag herself onto the bed before her consciousness faded to black.

_Warm sunshine beamed down on nine-year-old Rottie Beten as she explored the barren world around the ramshackle orphanage. The hard-baked earth __was warm beneath her bare feet as she determinedly dragged a shovel towards the backyard, the hard, metal head sending a trail of dust up behind her. _

_ She paused when she heard the rattle of a chain._

_ The Rottweiler watched her from the cramped quarters of its pen, its lips drawn back in what looked like a sneer, drool dripping down its russet chin. Thick scars marred its muzzle, one of its cruel, yellow eyes glazed over with blindness. Wherever it moved, a logging chain trailed in the dust behind it, each link sickeningly embedded in its muscular neck, leaving behind wounds that were yellow with pus and infection._

_ The Rottweiler snarled as Rottie dropped her shovel and slowly crouched down in front of its cage, but she did not so much as flinch at the sight of its yellowed fangs. Slowly, she reached forward, cooing to the animal softly._

_ A larger hand swatted hers before she could reach inside the pen._

_ Startled, she stumbled backwards and fell on her bottom in the dust. _

_ An elderly man stood beside her, his brow furrowed. "No," he scolded, "No, child. You must _**_never _**_try to pet that dog."_

_ Rottie was confused. "But, why not?"_

_ "Because, child," the old man explained, "He's not a friendly dog. He'll bite you, and you'll have to have your fingers sewn back on at the hospital."_

_ Frightened, she whimpered._

_ "He's a fightin' dog," the old man carried on, "He's supposed to be mean. And mean he is. So, never, ever try to pet that dog."_

_ "But, why would you have a dog, if you can't pet it and play with it?" Rottie puzzled. _

_ The old man laughed hoarsely. "Well, child," he replied, hoisting her to her feet, "He puts on a good show."_

_ His answer only bewildered the child more, but she did not press on with the matter. Instead, she looked at her elderly neighbor and asked, "What kind of dog is he, mister?"_

_The old man stooped and ruffled her knotted hair. "He's a Rottweiler," he answered, "Same as you, Rottie..."_

"Rottie...Rottie!"

The tribute moaned and rolled over. "What?"

"The training scores are about to be announced," Carson replied, "I thought you might want to watch them."

She blinked at her alarm clock tiredly. Four hours had passed. "Did I fall asleep?" she pondered aloud.

"I don't know," he answered, "You were asleep when I came to check on you earlier. Didn't want to wake you." With a warm smile, he took her hand and dropped three small, white pills into her palm. "Brought your painkillers," he added.

Sitting, she pressed her fingers to her forehead, then her temples. "I don't need them now," she replied, "It's gone."

"Good. Now, c'mon. We don't want to miss the scores," he urged, pulling her towards the door. She followed him down the hall and into the front room, where the rest of the District 5 crew had gathered, accompanied by two light-haired Avoxes.

"Feeling better?" Ventace asked as Rottie sat down beside him on the massive, plush sofa, "Carson said you had a headache."

"Yeah. Must've stressed myself out at lunch," she replied, "I'm fine now."

"Good," Ventace answered as the wall-mounted, flat-screen television flickered to life.

The Capitol's infamous anthem echoed off the walls as the program opened, Orca Octerre's beautiful, oval-shaped face appearing onscreen.

"Look!" Patricia chirped, "There's my aunt!"

Suddenly, the pieces clicked together in Rottie's mind. "Oh," she drawled, "_That's _why she has a District Four accent."

Patricia nodded. "We both have a District Four accent, but I cover it up a little better than she does," she explained, "Orca has been a Gamemaker for three years now, but she's never been asked to announce before. It's quite the honor."

The lavender-skinned woman hesitated, then added, "I think Gamemaker Vallington asked Orca to be an announcer because she dislikes her job so much. She's afraid that, someday, she'll be asked to hurt or kill one of my tributes and I'll think less of her for it. But, it's hard to ever think less of someone who saved you from your God-awful mother and raised you herself..."

"She doesn't seem like a Gamemaker," Carson replied, "She seems so...sweet and hesitant. Like she doesn't want to be there."

"I don't think she does," Patricia answered, "But, two years after we moved here in the name of my education, she met someone. I have never – _never –_ seen Orca love someone so much. So, when he signed up to be a Gamemaker three years ago...she did, too. It pays well, so she's grateful for the work, but it's hard on her..."

Silence settled on the room as the group listened to the rest of Orca's announcement. Then, a photograph of Chandler appeared onscreen, flanked by the number nine. "From District One," Orca commentated, "Chandler Corsica with a score of nine."

The District 5 hall listened in silence as the scores were announced. Velvet reeled in a measly score of five, while Christina and her district mate both scored a nine. The District 3 tributes scored a five and a six, respectively. Rottie frowned when Trent's tender smile and wide, innocent eyes appeared onscreen, alongside the number three. His district mate, Alicia Wells, did not do much better with her score of four.

Carson shifted anxiously as his face appeared onscreen.

"From District Five, Carson Mantle," Orca announced, "with a score of seven."

Praise erupted from the team. Patricia clapped, while Ventace reached over and patted him on the shoulder encouragingly. Kaen smiled and was about to speak, when Orca's voice interrupted him, "From District Five, Isabella Beten..."

Rottie looked at the screen, worried.

"...with a score of eight," Orca finished.

More praise filled the room. Ventace threw an arm around Rottie's shoulders, giving her a soft squeeze.

"Not bad, not bad," Kaen said, a hand on both of his tributes, "You've both done well so far. I have high hopes for this year."

"Maybe one of you will come home this year," Patricia beamed, clearly thrilled by the possibility.

Rottie blinked, horrified, as the realization finally began to sink in.

_One of you._

_ One._

* * *

"This is it," Patricia said as she walked into the bedroom, carefully laying a petite, plastic-wrapped garment down on the mattress, "I've worked on this for three days, Rottie. I hope you like it."

Carefully, she pulled the plastic veil off of the costume, then turned to her tribute with an anxious smile. "What do you think?"

Rottie smiled. "It's beautiful."

"Put it on," Patricia urged, more confident now.

A few minutes passed as the orphan undressed, then carefully pulled the dress over her head. Black satin cascaded down to her thin ankles, the front of the dress adorned with two wing-shaped blotches of brown on the chest and another streak of brown from the waist down. Patricia walked around her in a slow circle, adjusting the padding inside the dress that made Rottie look slender and beautiful, not scrawny and underfed. The dress was sleeveless and open on either side of the skirt, exposing the tribute's thin shoulders and bony legs.

"You look beautiful," Patricia told her, taking her hand and leading her to the full-body mirror on the other side of the room.

Rottie stared at herself, her eyes and mouth wide with surprise. Hours earlier, Patricia had dusted the tribute's narrow face and labor-scarred shoulders with make-up that had seemingly erased the wear of the world. Pink blush tinted her cheeks, making them seem fuller and healthier. Brown eyeshadow formed elegant semi-circles over her wide, tired eyes. She blinked fuller, darker lashes and closed her reddened lips, then turned to Patricia with a soft smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, her teased locks of dark hair bouncing around her face as she threw her arms around the surprised stylist's neck, "I've _never _looked pretty before!"

Patricia smiled and returned her embraced. "You do now."

"I wish Andrew were here to see me!" Rottie said as she rested her chin on her companion's shoulder.

"Maybe he will," Patricia replied, "He'll probably watch your interview, you know."

"I hope so," the orphan whispered, her brief moment of joy turning to grief, "I want him to see me...one last time...I want him to see me beautiful..."

Patricia frowned, then slowly pried herself from Rottie's arms. "C'mon," she said, forcing herself to smile, "Have a little faith in yourself!"

"I'll try," the tribute answered weakly.

"Now, for the rest of your costume," the stylist mused, fetching the dog-eared headband from Rottie's wardrobe and carefully slipping it into her neatly done hair, "Interviews start in thirty minutes. We have to hurry."

Patricia motioned for Rottie to sit down, then slipped a pair of black, leather flats onto her feet. "Now, Rottie," she said as she hurriedly buttoned a dainty, spiked choker around the orphan's neck, "I want you to understand that each stylist has their own methods with these costumes. Some want to make their tributes look beautiful, others want them to see strong and silent..."

She smiled as she retrieved a large, velvet box from the nightstand. "Me? I want you to look _dangerous_." Patricia opened the box and revealed a large knife, the silver blade glinting in the overhead lights.

"Dangerous?" Rottie asked, "Why?" She shifted anxiously as Patricia strapped the knife's shaft to the outside of her right thigh.

"Because," Patricia said with a smile, "You're the Rottweiler."

After a moment, Rottie, too, began to smirk. "Yeah. I suppose I am."

"Now, c'mon. We can't be late for the big night," the green-haired woman urged.

"Wait, won't this knife cut me?" the tribute asked, concerned, as she slowly stood.

Patricia laughed. "Don't worry, dear. It's not a real knife."

* * *

Less than fifteen minutes later, Rottie was in the hall with Patricia, surrounded by other tributes and their stylists, all fixated on the television mounted to the far wall.

"Patricia, I'm nervous," the orphan murmured, fiddling with her fingers.

"You'll be fine, I promise," Patricia reassured her, still focused on the screen as she watched Trent Klark walk onstage, an adorably innocent smile on his face as he waved to the crowd.

"He reminds me of someone back home," Rottie whispered sadly.

But, Patricia did not hear her over the roar of the crowd in the next room. She did not turn to her tribute again until Trent was crossing the stage once move, this time waving goodbye to the captivated audience.

"It's your turn!" Patricia whispered excitedly, nudging Rottie's shoulder, "Go on! Make us proud!"

Mechanically, Rottie stood, the hilt of the knife digging into her thigh roughly as she walked onstage, alarmed by the immediate applause, and sat down in the comfortable, plush chair across from Maurice Rodman, the Capitol's most esteemed talk show host. He was dressed in a glaringly orange tuxedo, his black hair slick with gel and an omnipresent smile plastered to his features as he announced her arrival to his audience.

"Hello there, Miss Rottie," Maurice beamed as he looked at her for the first time, "How are you tonight?"

For a moment, the tribute panicked, until she spotted a familiar face in the crowd. She smiled softly, and Ventace grinned back at her. Then, carefully, she replied, "A little anxious, to be honest."

"Might I say, you look particularly lovely tonight!" Maurice commented, to which the audience cheered in agreement, "Now, tell me: you come from an orphanage back home. Can you tell us how you spent your days there?"

Rottie wished that she had a more clever response, but instead replied, "Working. Working as hard as I could to feed my family."

The smile fell off of Maurice's face as he asked, "That sounds quite unpleasant, my dear. Tell me, is there anything, anything at all, that you regret about taking care of those children?"

"No. No, of course not," the tribute answered, "I...could never regret taking care of my family. There's nothing that I could possibly regret about working for them."

The commentator smiled softly, touched, and stated, "That's very sweet of you, Rottie. Quite heart-warming." His smirk hardened as he pressed on, "Now, I know those kids mean a lot to you, but there _must _be a special guy back home, hm?"

Rottie liked Maurice. He was hospitable and friendly and had given her the perfect outlet to mention Andrew. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, then smiled and replied, "There might be someone."

"Oh?" he probed, an eyebrow arched and a cheeky grin splayed across his face, "Do tell!"

Rottie looked at Ventace, who made a heart shape with his hands and nodded encouragingly. Then, with a soft smile, she explained, "I met him when I was fifteen. There had been trouble at work that day. Someone tried to follow me home and jumped me when I wasn't expecting it. But, Andrew was there. He protected me. And he's been my best friend ever since."

"Oh, this guy sounds like a tough one!" Maurice laughed. The audience laughed with him and cheered.

"Actually," the orphan interjected with a chuckle of her own, "He's just a pretty boy. All bark and no bite. But...I don't think there's anyone that I could ever love more...than Andrew..." Her expression softened as she spoke.

"Is he a sweetheart?" the commentator probed eagerly, leaning forward in his seat with an enormous grin on his face, "Please tell me he's a sweetheart!"

A tender smile tugged at Rottie's lips, tears beginning to bead on her lashes. "Oh, he is..."

"Excellent!" Maurice replied, "A sweet girl like you deserves an equally sweet man! Don't you agree, folks?" He waved to the audience, which applauded in agreement.

"We're almost out of time here," Maurice informed her, "But, one last thing, Rottie. I just want you to know that I'm rooting for you. I want to see you go out there and win this thing for all those kids back home. Not to mention that special guy of yours." He winked.

"Thanks," Rottie responded with another smile, slowly standing as he took her hand.

He hoisted her arm into the air, grinning gleefully. "Ladies and gentlemen, Rottie Beten of District Five!" The crowd roared in approval, exploding into a barrage of cheers, whistles, and applause.

Maurice leaned down as he led her offstage, whispering in her ear, "Put on a good show for me, Rottie. I'm counting on you."

* * *

The inn was all but abandoned, most of its temporary residents gathered in the courtyard with the rest of District Five, crowded around the theater-sized television that had been erected there. Even the secretary had abandoned the inn and flocked to the square to view the interviews with the tributes, live from the Capitol.

Andrew watched the interviews in silence from his bed, his glasses sliding down his nose as he looked down at his feet miserably. In less than twenty-four hours, Rottie – his Rottie, who he had hoped to someday rescue from that dreadful orphanage – would be in the arena.

"Oh, Rottie...," he whispered to himself, "I can't save you now."

He froze when Maurice Rodman announced her name, his dark blue eyes fixated on the screen as a young woman he hardly recognized walked onstage shyly. She was a thin, malnourished teen no more, transformed into a stunningly beautiful woman. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched her sit down, the bright lights glinting on the knife that had been strapped to her thigh.

"Rottie," he murmured, head bowed as he ordered himself not to cry, "You look...you look so beautiful tonight."

He sat in silence, fighting tears as he helplessly clutched the sheets with both hands. He wanted to hurt someone, break something, anything. He should have done more. He should have stopped her from taking all that tesserae. He should have...

"I don't think there's anyone that I could ever love more...than Andrew..."

When he heard his name, he lifted his head, lips trembling. "W-what?"

At that moment, Rottie looked out at the audience, her expression tender. Over hundreds of miles of distance, their eyes met.

Tears welled up in Andrew's eyes, despite his efforts to stop them. "Oh, Rottie...," he whispered, "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He stumbled across the room, falling to his knees in front of the television set. "I love you, too, Rottie...," he said, "I should have said so sooner..."

The Capitolite closed his eyes and listened to Maurice bid Rottie farewell. When he opened them, his eyes were filled with newfound determination. Scrambling to his feet, he yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a touch-screen cell phone, punching in the number.

Andrew drummed his fingers on the nightstand as the phone rang, relieved when a man's voice answered, "Hello?"

"Yes, father," he said, his voice urgent, "Listen closely. I have a very important favor to ask of you."

* * *

The Hunger Games (c) Suzanne Collins - No copyright infringement intended.

The Games will begin in the next chapter. c:


End file.
